Vultures remained acacia boughed
near the shrinking oasis,
ancient hate festering,
rankling in its timeless rage.

Sending locusts to represent them
they waited, shifting weight
on tainted talons,
hoping for an easy meal
of death dined in the dark.

In their desert chanticleer's
call is in a sunless and
pointless black night.

As the call to prayer
harkens in all directions,
now so does their shame.

Veils of night hide not
the smirks of guilt
and birds who would normally
fly around sandstorms
must now fly through them.