She speaks of home
Home of cattle-egrets and cows
Of millet-mead and mare’s milk
Home of barbed whips and blood.
She speaks of prancing horses and dancing camels
Of familial charity and unholy submissiveness.
She speaks of four-horned mud flats
Under where warriors were bred
And empires had their cradles.
She speaks of sand stretching as far as the eye cannot see.
She speaks of blind prophets and crippled phantoms
Who dazzle their world with blunted colours.
She speaks of shawls and shades
And the muffled whispers of mummies at the early dawn of a new moon.
She speaks of being called by a higher prescence
A being unearthly and seductive.
She speaks of long nights waiting for a kiss to be delivered by the wind.
She speaks with sorrow
Raw and piercing.
And we, enraptured by her voice
Sit cross-legged at her feet, listening very closely to the enchanting cadence of her prescence.