With the Last Breath

On the cold sands of the desert tangled together are feet and a shadow. Night, with its open black mouth, has swallowed the road; the whistle of silence is high and low, and drops of blood on the earlobes have turned to icicles. The fugitive man fixes his eyes on the eyes of the night. A light sparks there, far off, and the man runs with his last breath to where there is a hut...