t h e   h a l f   l i g h t   o f   c h r i s t m a s

Stop, oh my friends, let us pause to weep over the remembrance of my beloved./ Here was her abode on the edge of the sandy desert between Dakhool and Howmal./ The traces of her encampment are not wholly obliterated even now./ For when the South wind blows the sand over them the North wind sweeps it away./ The courtyards and enclosures of the old home have become desolate;/ The dung of the wild deer lies there thick as the seeds of pepper./ On the morning of our separation it was as if I stood in the gardens of our tribe,/ Amid the acacia-shrubs where my eyes were blinded with tears by the smart from the bursting pods of colocynth
The Poem of Imru al Quais, from The Mu'allaqat

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