Omar (edit)

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:
as thread and needle fine
through coloured canvas weaved,
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.