The Tent

Outside, the freezing desert night.
This other night inside grows warm, kindling.
Let the landscape be covered with thorny crust.
We have a soft garden in here.
The continents blasted, cities and little towns,
everything become a scorched, blackened ball,
The news we hear is full of grief for that future,
but the real news inside here
is there's no news at all.

Jelaluddin Rumi