Southern Winds

In the trees a private Mosque lurks in disguise.When the winds blow against the brown leaves, the prayers can be heard echoing on the pier.The coastline bears the name of its conquerors of old, who now rule nothing but their arms.

Hashish pronounces the seasons name with a taste of moon-lit strawberries.Walking, walking, rivers are born in the northern vines, doomed to dream of southern deserts.The pigeons must learn upon which wind they arrived upon this hill-torn land.Only then shall Carthaginian generals serve them.

Curly clouds, hover closely above the golden sea: a paradise of the dark albatross.Summer is not a name, it is a prophecy, silence of the meadows that shall never feel the wet words of Roman waves.

Turbans are whote swords that fight back against Hell's gondoliers.Sheath your blade only when the sun descends, like a lover that seeks his loved one on the quiet beach embraced in star light.When the battle is over- wether won ot lost -dread kicks in.Only the result matters, yet you always ponder the causes.You, rider of the twisted camel, are always attracted to what has no significance.This is a waste of time...yet, it is the most natural thing...what to listen to: Nature or results?

The rich breeze born from the distant, napping, Nile relaxes you: makes you recline under the mid-day sun.Are you owner of your Empire now? Or are you a slave dealer? What to make of yourself? Create riches or sell them? Fertility is a goddess, but she does not make gods.And the desert shall punish those who are not worthy.It is a half-creation and it relies on you to turn its mirages into dreams.Laugh at your steps for they are Fate-less; silly...they won't admit.