I was in a desert, rock and stone,
And there were no trees, and no water.
Pale mountains, edged in sharp grey,
And the rivers all turned to stone. In the waste land,
Trade winds, mean winds,
Of the voice of a tree,
All wound in spirals,
Secrets that none could speak,
And the scattered leaves,
Pale and bright,
Under the sky,
A canvas to paint our fears.

• T S Eliot