1
The watchman cleaves to his lantern
The knight clings to the neck of his horse
My name was passed down from mother to daughter –
like the songs sung by caravans to bolster their courage
My name is the gleam of a golden scarab
The tribe is both sustenance and a finely-wrought necklace
The journey is like a tattoo
Survival is balanced on the point of a spear
2
Each millennium a woman journeyed along Darb Al Arbaien 1
Richly attired as she travelled the road back and forth
She may not return
Each millennium she starts out once more
... ... ...
What remains: a ladle that keeps its own counsel
A clay pot punctured by millennia
A necklace of shells from distant seas, of shells gleaned from a far-off riverbed – pottery
stained with the patina of copper – the blown egg of an ostrich, etc, etc
What remains: revelation
3
The fount of wisdom is pierced by
the point a dagger
... ... ...
An epoch of atrocities witnessed by the diggers of graves. Temples razed to the ground. Tales told by men whose fingers fire flames. Violated women branded by poverty, scorned with shame. Then came the discourse of separation and selection. Then came camp followers, wielding division, corrupt catalogues of sins straddled on camels, difference decreed by the naked eye. Numberless tongues were ripped out to be trammelled under the hooves of horses.
The end of a tribe is a tribe.
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