Who knows which unfortunate soul died in the desert and was denied a proper burial, as whirlwinds keep drifting past like caravan upon caravan.

The poet paints a hauntingly sorrowful picture of the desert, where whirlwinds of dust rise continuously like moving caravans. In classical tradition, dying alone in the wilderness without receiving even a handful of earth for a grave is the ultimate tragedy of an abandoned lover. Here, those restless dust devils are imagined as the scattered remains of that tragic soul, wandering the sands endlessly in search of peace.