Nameless In Egypt
The image is hauntingly tragic, beautiful,
evocative dimension transcending
into forces welling up. A cargo hold
of words could not steer the story living, or dying,
beyond those black, glistening eyes where a fine line
is tread—whether in the next instant tears
will burst forth, or whether another
tear will never again leek from those
wondrous orbs for the rest of her days.
Now. At this very moment, she must decide
whether to beach in the comatose-like
clutches of a desiccated dune, hollow and jaded.
Torrents of libation have swept away the middle
ground for this youthful face that stares directly back,
unflinching.
The intensity—a constant drip of pain
to thud against my skull. . .
Pain mingled with hope—the desperate
yet confident hope that impels me
to think that I could weep for her,
that I could cry rivers beyond mere physical
capability. If only I might always sit
beholden to those eyes, listen to the grains
of sand blast in vain across that face,
and feel those stray strands of windswept tangles
that gently brush the sun-browned cheek.
But glance drifts down. . .
Caption simply relates her father's martyrdom
in El Kosheh. But who is this stranded vessel?
And why can she utter intimations of a prophetess
without even opening her mouth?
The image is hauntingly tragic, beautiful,
evocative dimension transcending
into forces welling up. A cargo hold
of words could not steer the story living, or dying,
beyond those black, glistening eyes where a fine line
is tread—whether in the next instant tears
will burst forth, or whether another
tear will never again leek from those
wondrous orbs for the rest of her days.
Now. At this very moment, she must decide
whether to beach in the comatose-like
clutches of a desiccated dune, hollow and jaded.
Torrents of libation have swept away the middle
ground for this youthful face that stares directly back,
unflinching.
The intensity—a constant drip of pain
to thud against my skull. . .
Pain mingled with hope—the desperate
yet confident hope that impels me
to think that I could weep for her,
that I could cry rivers beyond mere physical
capability. If only I might always sit
beholden to those eyes, listen to the grains
of sand blast in vain across that face,
and feel those stray strands of windswept tangles
that gently brush the sun-browned cheek.
But glance drifts down. . .
Caption simply relates her father's martyrdom
in El Kosheh. But who is this stranded vessel?
And why can she utter intimations of a prophetess
without even opening her mouth?