Look to the gloom,
yielding no depth of distance,
only pinpoints of light
blaring the selfish madness of man
and beast alike.
Look to oval eyed Saturn, and
notice not the opalescent crenulation
of teeth, or
the rigid celestial body
inflated and bloated-
floating in the absence of fettered air;
all that is important
is the lifeless bodies
cannibalized and
invariably stuck in an endless orbit
of the greedy giant.

The Nakhal fort cleaner,
broom like an automatic weapon,
bucket, a water grenade.
Posing against the sun-bleached wall
he seems about to run,
as we click
and click,
catching his faded trousers,
his white shirt and grey beard,  
noble nose,
cloth ragged round his head.

I thought he would recite passages of poetry
Rumi and Firdawsi,
I had a mind he could view my heart,
what hid there.
But he said nothing,
and gazed into the lens
like a cat.

With his broom and bucket,
he was king of that place,
sweeping stairs and rooms,
the view to the mountains,
a crenulation,
as we stepped along the walls,
debris from another country,
and waited for his broom
to sweep us home.