The Woman in the Dunes

A day trip the dune swallows the map. Rope, pit, the brittle rim of a village. A woman below, lifting sand as if the hill were breathing through her hands! He waits for a ladder that never arrives; the hour dries out in his throat. He tests the wall. It slides. He asks for the way out! The sand answers with more sand! There is no escape! Suna, suna... inside every seam! The pit keeps its law without a face! He digs; it fills! He names the weight: sand, sand... And the name comes off in his hands! Night after night, the bucket rises. Breath, grit, the woman’s silence. He learns the geometry of endurance: not rescue, only the next shovelful, not freedom, only the work that keeps the walls from moving! No sign. No road. Only the dune’s patient mouth. Only the question of whether a man becomes what he cannot leave! There is no escape! Suna, suna... inside every seam! The pit keeps its law without a face! He digs; it fills! He names the weight: sand, sand... And the name comes off in his hands! Sand on the tongue. Sand in the thought. A life made small. Not gone. Not free. Just here.