I must find my own creed...

I must find my own creed, my own way
Over the wastes, the boiling sands. Life
Provides no Virgil, there are no three
Heavenly matrons for whom I'm a source
Of concern – hardly one, though anxious,
Who brought me here and whom I soon
Will lose. I stare at the broad deserts,
The trees braying with thorns: the brambles
Are hungry, they mesh like the horns
Of rampaging bulls, in rage or in love.
There is a wind whose bitter incursions
Threaten to snap and break these lofty arms;
It carries with it the red grains, raw
From the sun, and deposits them again
Like ashes, rain. I will cling to myself
Close, I will hold myself as slightly
As a dried stump, who have not seen rain:
The skies are as purple as blood
And they flow through my veins.