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Qasida
by Elisabeth Cohen
Oh, halt but here a time, my nameless friend
And loose the strap that binds your riding beast,
We’ve lost the hounds that chased us in the night
And naught but the hot sun threatens us now.
Think not that I seek pause from lack of strength--
These feet were made to tread the coarse-grained sands
These knees have heeled my camel with no fear
To battles far more grim than last night’s fray.
But though at last all lands become as one
To him that rides the desert hard and long,
Some faint sweet scent or soft-tipped shadow cast
May call to mind a spot once dear, now gone.
If weakness this, then laugh and get you hence
But leave me my mad whim. If you be friend
In truth, then pray you now divert
Your ears from this my moment’s reverie.
No sign yet lasts to mark the camping-ground,
No whiff of unmixed wine or fine-chopped herbs
That rose in steam from cook-fires roasting goat—
A feast indeed at close of bustling day.
Nor trace of dancing feet etched in the sand
When each had gorged his fill. The restless wind
Has lost the keel of pipes pitched high and clear
As drums beat low, we danced the night away.
Her flashing feet could beat the drums, her neck
Back-tilted, glistened with her sweat by moon
Her teeth gleamed pearly white, her eyes were wide,
Her hair swung down in curls to tease my cheeks.
Her palms were soft and gripped me tight, we swirled
Alone from all creation, and her breath
Came quick and deep and gasping, and she laughed
As pipe sound died away, and pulled me close.
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