For a heart athirst, love's cooling lake I sought,
And gained instead a mirage which came to naught.
Within my soul now throbs a deserted place,
Mojave... land of arid sand-choked space.

Abandoned by the shallow weed and sage,
Its dunes bereft of even hate and rage.
But yet, the prickly cactuses abide,
I feel their piercing needles sting and chide.

Though someone said 'tis better, I recall,
To love and lose than not to love at all,
I find in that no soothing consolation,
He can't have known of this desolation.