THE VILLAGE CLOCK, A'ALI

The hands of the clock in the village square are stilled.

They hold time, frozen.

They are oblivious to the glory of the sunrise,

The shifting heart of the sun.

They are immune

To the blinding rays of the silver moon.

The winds of change will not touch them,

Memory of things past

Will not linger in their grasp.

The birds build their nests,

Spatter the face of time with dirt.

And still time does not pass.

No memory assails them as they wait, silent.

No heartbeat moves them onward.

The mechanics of their movements are mute. 

The bells of continuance do not measure

Time as a treasure.

They do not glory in the march of progress. 

They do not wipe away the tears from the face

As the mind sees the lines of age. 

They do not question and rage, 

As the seconds turn into hours, the hours into days. 

The endless days into week and months and years 

That record the senselessness of life. 

They do not mark the calendar with meaningless memories. 

The hands of the clock in the village square are stilled. 

They do not brush off time, 

for time no longer exists. 

It has no meaning.

THE ARAB HORSE

Fly with the wind, my Arab steed, across the desert sands.

Dance in the swirling storms of dust, and swim the restless seas.

Oh, that my heart could beat with yours, in the first light of day,

When the mist drifts beneath the palms and the world begins to play.

When the seas are mirrored silver, and silence stills the air,

If only we could gallop into the future without care.

Run with the wind as it breathes o'er the land,

Answer to the touch of my guiding hand,

With your lengthening stride, speed away from those who do not understand.

Your spirit bold and rare.

Oh, dance, my Arab steed, through the star flecked night,

When the crescent moon is gravid with sorrow,

And you flee the darkness of tomorrow,

With your neck stretched you race the shadows drawing near.

And your breath is heavy with fear.

The darkness of the present rides with crop and spur.

Fly from the future when the tracks of time are marked by rubber wheels.

When the water of life is dense with oil,

And pollution is on the wind.

Our souls touch through eternity,

Your beauty and grace are the realities of fantasy,

Your tossing mane and flowing tail,

The deep chest that is filled with heart,

The soft eyes and the flaring nostrils as you breathe deeply of life.

The horse that has danced through the dreams of man,

The Arab horse.

You are valued for the grace and beauty of your breed.

Oh let us ride together with pride, my Arab steed.