Her bare feet and palms are the shade of half ripe maroon dates.
Her strong silhouette, a gazelle at sunset.
Eyes are dark brown granules of coffee.
The clanks of gold jewellery on her forehead and ankles,
her sweet aroma of roses fused with jasmine saturate air.
Her fiery soul - a wild Arabian horse yet untamed by bedouins.
Her sun kissed skin glimmers under sunlight;
falcons are constrained with the touch of her fingertips.
She stands tall as she carries her pride,
tall as she hums with the gentle birds.

We ancient women, are an unbroken chain of tribal ancestry,
interlinked by blood and soul. Our lineage, a mother's lullaby,
carried by the wind that disperses sand,
wind that shakes  the core of oceans.

I lay quietly beside your soft soul.
The lioness of the daffodils -
overgrown rests on our peaceful hearts.
In lush gardens of Abigail and Primrose laughter
that consume my vision, the pearlescent moon
beams lighting this dark quietude.

My five fingers meets your hands,
we begin to glow like fireflies in the night sky.
Restless and consumed by a cosmic energy of
a million moons, and a multitude of revolving planets.
My gossamer soul whispers to your lucid soul.
Bathing under the moonlight, you whisper words that
sooth my tormented heart. Words that light a flickering
honeycomb candle, a multitude of miniature lanterns
in a sacred temple. Words that cast shadows of
promises in the vault of my heart...

Sweet hymns of nightingales
awaken this soul; pollinating it
into full bloom. Nectar melts the
wax walls, the rush of the mystic
river baptises the ancient soul,
extinguishing flames into sodden ashes.

Spying trees whisper with the wind.
The soul emits an ethereal glow,
like jewelled constellations
forming a carousel in the night sky.
The scent of almond flower evokes
lingering memories in the transparent air.

The revived soul spreads its wings,
at twilight breaking the bond between its companion as it bids farewell to the
earthly world and embraces the
heavens cocooning it's being.

With an azure drinking cup studded with lapis, wait for her
In the evening at the spring, among perfumed roses, wait for her
With the patience of a horse trained for mountains, wait for her
With the distinctive, aesthetic taste of a prince, wait for her
With seven pillows stuffed with light clouds, wait for her
With strands of womanly incense wafting, wait for her
With the manly scent of sandalwood on horseback, wait for her
Wait for her and do not rush.

If she arrives late, wait for her.
If she arrives early, wait for her.
Do not frighten the birds in her braided hair.
Wait for her to sit in a garden at the peak of its flowering.
Wait for her so that she may breathe this air, so strange to her heart.
Wait for her to lift her garment from her calf, cloud by cloud.
And wait for her.

Take her to the balcony to watch the moon drowning in milk.
Wait for her and offer her water before wine.
Do not glance at the twin partridges sleeping on her chest.
Wait and gently touch her hand as she sets a cup on marble.
As if you are carrying the dew for her, wait.
Speak to her as a flute would to a frightened violin string,
as if you knew what tomorrow would bring.
Wait, and polish the night for her ring by ring.
Wait for her until Night speaks to you thus:
There is no one alive but the two of you.
So take her gently to the death you so desire,
and wait.