We sit and wait in reeds,
Thigh-high grasses and spindle
Scratches on old palms which clutch
Sprigs of seer’s heather,
Waiting for the laughing
River to wash our soles.
Somewhere, there is a tent
And fragrant smoke from silk
Flags which rip around the breath,
Heavy with sand, a singular crusade.
The horses will continue pounding
East. Somewhere in an old walled town
The morning call to prayer breaks
The heavy heads of faith again.
The cardomon cracks my lips
And I shout out two words across
The spinning dust, unheard to you
Dancing at the city gates.