Homeless Wanderer.

The bone of the desert cracks with dryness, the winds have become storms, they roar in the empty wilderness. I, a snail in the uproar, crawl along on my belly, my antennae smell the moisture of the dew; crawling, toward the kisses of the dew I will go, slowly perhaps, but steadily, steadily. Surely: I will cross the desert of sorrow!...