Contributor: Sheikha A.

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Recanting the shepherd boy’s steps
from the Plaza of Tangier, we would stop
the world from moving forward for him;

the sheen of the sword that refracted
in his mind – the intent embedded –

the sixty sheep he faithfully reared
but knowing to sell a lame one
didn’t necessarily mean deception;

now, amongst the endless dunes
of an untameable Sahara, unlike his sheep,
the caravans have loaded. The goad
determined.

During rest, the caravans breathe
fitfully, unknowing of what lays ahead –
having yet to greet the desert properly;

but a storm silently unfolds
in the mind of the shepherd's,
the words in books: a cryptic treasure,

but Coelho’s night is prominent
breathing within the sand of the vast,

not as clear as the crystals rubbed,
nor as complacent as black and white
destiny,

but the sand stirs under a moon-breeze
often camouflaging as a white sheet,
the silence faithless, mornings fateful
and journey endless:

maktub.


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