Where ancient sands of Namib gleam
Underneath a sun that ends the dream
This lonely emperor rules the terrain
For two thousand years without a rain.
No trunk to climb, no branch to wave
It looks like a low and woody grave
Just two lone leaves from birth to old,
To brave scorching heat and harsh cold.
The fierce Atlantic brings the shroud
A ghostly mist as well a low-slung cloud
The ribbon-like leaflets drink the air
That’s how silent thirst answered there.
The winds of time may tear and split
The ravishing dust might buffet it, yet
Anchored deep, Welwitschia will not yield
Truly, the stubborn phantom of the field.
In a way, it is the perfect antithesis
To everything we study in living kingdom
Simpler in form than the pliant Octopus
Yet more resilient with undying meristem.
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