The countless procession

of people, camels and mirth.

The Saudi Arabian sun

and the cold sand, a mirage of truth.

Here, the mixture of seas

and saviors,

the gardens of ivory,

dark-skinned children.

Soul, my soul, pleasant,

obliged, and fancied,

hatred scorned, a mix of white and

white-wash.

Teas, of flavours benign;

homes, built of cloth and thatch. 

How should I know thee,

nameless, pensive,

high-bred, the ointment

of nations. . .

What priest could contend

with thy watch,

and pulse, beckoning

to early paradise.

Name of the light,

I have loved thee,

watcher of the moon

and stars.  

Emily Isaacson

Last light on the sea,

we came aboard

and the dark pressed

against us.

The cold and hunger staved,

the watch at ship’s hull,

I was reticent and kind,

you were somber and yielded.

Emily Isaacson