A Petrarchan sonnet capturing the scents, colors, and architecture of the Maghreb.
The scent of saffron floats through Marrakech,
Where blue-tiled fountains cool the dusty heat,
And shadows dance on walls of reddish-peach,
While drums of Gnawa pulse beneath the feet.
The Atlas peaks are crowned in winter white,
Above the palms where desert caravans meet,
To trade their silks and silver in the street,
Before the moon brings in the Berber night.
From Tangier’s port to Fes’s winding maze,
The call to prayer floats high above the gate,
A tapestry of old and modern ways.
Where leather dries and patient weavers wait,
To catch the sun within a golden haze,
And leave the desert’s destiny to fate.
No comments:
Post a Comment