The Eyes of His Sultana

Just before they reach the city,

he begins to lower the third layer of black fabric

over her eyes, covering them like a child

catching fireflies in his palms.

She reaches for his wrists and asks

silently

Stop…

- - - - -

No -

these are a people bent on understanding,

on making sense of everything.

They will try to translate your eyes.

They will fail - their language cannot suffice describing the lines

of your favourite poems that you use to look at me,

and the ghazals of your gaze do not belong

hastily scribbled on the parchment of

some ignorant bard.

Your eyes are mine as mine are yours,

but I must do as God has told me

and protect you from all of the cheap glances

men will try to bargain from your blameless face.

My Sultana, like the dark side of the full moon,

I hide your beauty out of a jealousy

deeper than the sea.

Try to fathom my emotions;

it is my love for you that holds this fabric between my fingers.

O Sultana,

stay by me in the city today,

and tonight, I promise,

you will greet the stars

with a Syrian rose in your hair.