The lands of Arabia
in whispering sands
the Sirocco blows,
across these trodden paths;
theirs the beaten copper — gold —
of silken streets
rich with spice,
where the aroma
of sweet tobacco
stalks the shadows time leaves behind.
Lays these ten thousands of years,
— footprints in the sand —
to climb their hills
towards cloudless summer,
astride the fallen;
castle and crusader’s tomb.
Now morning breaks
in a flight of doves
— swiftly — over the hojah’s call.
Their caliphs — marauding kings —
theirs the scimitar’s flash
and silk woven into time,
dripping the jewels
that legends break like morning
over Arabia’s
whispering sands.
