Steppes

The brown unmoving steppes
hypnotize in noonday light;
the prickly brushwood
arid rock
thirsty silent earth.
I have known
solitude impregnated
with mysterious consonances
on gray spaces of the steppes.
I have sensed
forms of timid creatures
mimicking grasslands,
hidden from mortal eyes.
Lean horses kneel by water holes
fed by streamlets dried up long ago.
The beauty of the steppes endures,
enigmatic,
under gray-green fabrics
God weaves over the land.
Sovereign,
Andean heights watch
with sharp eyes of a condor
the quietude of plateaus.

Their unrelenting semblance,
mesmerizing hues
appear to be a craving
numbness or a void
crying out for some transcendent passion
stolen from the unreal dome
of startling blues
-some godly meaning in the sky-
revealed only to the patient eye.