Raiders of the Lost Ark

In the dust‑laden heart of the Sahara,
the wind whispers in a deep, ancient colour.
A favourite of dusty journals, a bravado,
the legend of Raiders of the Lost Ark takes flight.

Indy stands in his churlish leather coat,
eager as a London bobby on a midnight chase.
With a cigarette‑stained grin that gleams in oil,
he takes the relic—or perhaps takes the relic.

The echo of a saber, the thud of boulders,
the roar of those great cannons he stole from ’90s Tokyo.
A holy sacred chest may hold the Almighty's will,
yet the map he sifts through offers only murky hope.

In the cinema it flickers, a film of punch,
British or American, the story does not shaken compare.
The Nazis, a grim set of blokes with polished gear,
and the wind that spirals into dawn’s nightfall and light.

Baffled imaginations recognise the call of adventure,
the great paradox—of lost, the faithful, and the truth.
For when the ark is raised, the world smiles wide—
a timeless journey, a piece of hope inside.