The eye of the needle

Strife is a desert wind that strips dunes to recurrent nothingness, its hot breath excavating the spaces between our ribs, making and mourning through time all changes that must be.
Time, which is our red line, our spindle.
"Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream"?
I inhabit Draupadi, and pray that the tatters of this shroud should blow away to reveal the rock beneath my denudation.
Pass gently through this storm, stranger, for who knows when you touch me.