You are hanging
upside down
from the branch
of an elm tree,
blonde hair dangling
in the sunlight,
honeyed strands
forming loops
upon loops
of formal Arabic,
each phrase shaped
so beautifully.

Oceans of air
breathe through
our exchange,
transporting us
down the river,
Darro, by way
of boat.

We reach the court
of Alhambra,
its walls a ruddy
red, imitations
of us, steeped
in our own
passion and fear.

You walk to the
emerald reflecting pool,
eager to dampen
your face.

The blonde of your hair
trends blue like the sky
as the waters stretch
each strand into a
transcendant place,
as if the interior walls
of the palace were
calling your name,
inviting you to partake
in the ecstasy of the plunge.

But you refuse to enter.

The intricate calligraphies of Arabic
announce a kingdom
of the linguistic ethereal.

You are deaf
to the trumpet call,
marching straight toward
the palms.
In an instant your hair
is up in smoke,
proclaiming
your own resounding
sudden disappearance.

I close my eyes and recede
into the shallow caves
of Wadi Rum and Petra.

A cosmopolitan man,
I will always be a traveler,
a wanderer.

But I know my tribe,
and my tribesmen
are pleased,
alhamdulilah.

Humbled by light
of loyalty,
they breathe
gratitude,
if not hope
and assurance.

This is an intriguing write, Greg. The imagery and exotic (to me) backdrop is as surreal as a Dali--that is, in the true meaning of surrealism. I enjoyed this one.