The Poet

He rejoices . . . Thirty rivers of silk and a forest of aquamarine belong to him
A desert belongs to him, when she spirals swiftly behind the wind and a
       rebelling boxthorn
Water belongs to him, since a cloud—lightly—passed by . . . and the prairie
        rejoiced
Poetry belongs to him, since rhymes were suspended over the spinning
        wheel of black wool
He rejoices . . . Thirty broken mirrors and a thousand unfurled verses belong
        to him.  

   Contributor’s notes: Abdallah Al Saikhan
   Translator’s notes: Ayesha Saldanha

   The Poet
   Sword