My booths gathered dust as I wondered the banks of the river Euphrates
The drops of sweat did not even come to existence in the scourging heat
This desert of love, the one that I never left or ever entered, mother-naked
Where winds erode these clay brick stones of palaces built by the haughty
Still even in its downfall the artistry of eastern craftsmen caresses your eye
At that remain of war and age there is one who made his gallery my temple
While roaming through palace halls holds dear these arts of stone and bone
A man, a keeper of antiques of shrines of sand and loam, grave and inornate
He is, this defender of beauty and riches you cannot pocket, cultured always
I owe him this pure love, my heart surrendered, for surely Allah must love him
This best of Islam, a Sufi unknown, spoke out of the depth of soul, I'm human
These deep words when asked if he were a believer, a man of faith, a Muslim
Said he, this human fane, humble, loving all souls equal, meeting respectfully
Every honest mild heart, be they Jew, Christian, Muslim or whatever a Gender.
A 'little song', a quatorzaine, a mere 14 lines as tribute to an Iraqi custodian of culture.
© 20230203
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