I fashioned a tabernacle
on sands of time
to commune with the vast
under the tall roof.
Caravansarais passed by
and they never paused for a moment
to get in and glimpse;
others tripped inside
only to be trapped by the marvel
the fabric was and left bemused.

A bearded man, rod in hand
entered and stuck it aground;
with sandal paste he smeared it
and frankincense he offered.
Men swarmed inside
to peer at the scented rod
and the beard, to boot.
Hours that followed witnessed
attributions of powers extraordinaire
to the rod and its owner.

“It’s high time I quit,” I vowed,
“my imprint on the sands of time
-the tabernacle of the vast-
has tapered off to a rod and a beard.”