A dream of pitched skies.
My complexion illumined,
By nocturnal radiance of gloom,
Shined steel rays from the moon.
Creeping coastal winds on my right.
Frothing waves approaching my skin,
Sand constricting my flesh like pins,
Doomed to deep rapture, I could not win.
The shores of scorching Tripoli sands.
With Arabic fire potent of golden alchemy,
Above burning desert, under molten sea,
Lies Ottoman provinces, drowned at scree.
Were I to become a victim of Siren's call?
To sink without ship or a captain's crest,
Was a fleeting frig sailing to sea-change, lest
I collapse bellowing into Mother Earth's breast.