The weather has broken apart in pieces,
sandy – hot – dry, the palms have bent
from thirst, their bulimic arms spread
out for help. But the sun is on familiar
grounds. The air has been taxed with
the sear of blistering humidity before,
the grass shines like the greens from
a tropical forest, neat pruned carpets
of beds for toddling bees, a butterfly
or two – there is façade, but there is
The sand is honest – to its Bedouin.
I’ve left pieces of me across your
corrugated dunes, and some scattered
over the lagoons of Qasba. You were
quick in detaching, as I in breaking.
Your evening sky dresses elegantly;
the sand sways to its provocations.
But the air does not find respite
from the conflagrating exchanges
between the moon and the lyre,
goading the sand to swirl like hips
of a dancer’s through the night…
but there is truth.
The sands protect its Bedouin.
I shall only look at your moon
and wish to own it, your trees
will never nurture dates for me –
recession bearer – they will bend
but never break.
My colour will bake under your sun,
and I will learn of how you carry
your truths, but I morose
my wayward affinity will leave
me to wander like the eccentric
Sheikha A. is the author of Spaced from Hammer & Anvil Books.