it is the day of the arab league
and recently they found
between 17 and 20 tons of clay tablets that is the foundation of a city:
many letters from king to king. along the roads families rest
among pistachio trees, blossoming almonds, cypresses.
there is much joy despite the dark roaring men who congregate
and actually would rather perform the hadj or wage jihad in themselves.
let them endlessly seduce snails into pooping blue (the colour
of mary) and let them provide accommodation by piling house upon house.
by the tent saints with very big hands stood ready. the sail grew
and grew. kings begged each other for mercy. they could feel it coming:
the grinding of coffee could be heard for miles. in the tent new
in-laws have moved in. the city turned out to be crumbling clay.
once in the car mary tucked her son in warm in his white blankets.
he dreamt in standard arabic. the earth went brown and high in the mountains
we saw the sea and were alarmed at its departure: cleopatra led the way
through ruins palace and she for a second a stylite. we are loved by each other
in a throng shrouded in black washing around us. they are empty faces at times
surly at times worried remaining hidden from themselves in veils, headscarves
burkas. we know better for under those jet-black clothes desires wag
in their lingerie and titillate to shed and touch
then there remains silence around spirits of dead ones
who rest in high towers through which the cold desert wind sighs
and whispers: hafez bashar maher