Smell the olibanum,
on the zephyr lately come,
our crescent moon is whole,
let it light your soul.
Observing winter
nights, an eastern eye but
not a jaundiced one.
Around the fire, they tell tales.
As if the camels listen.
In truth, the tents were mine:
thread and needle fine
through coloured canvas weave.
I watched the caravans leave.
The pen wove patterns
on the parchment depicting
love's cicatrices.
Within the market, they sell bales
of raw and blank material.
