A mare among king’s chariots,
a lily amidst the thorns,
She is a dove hidden in cleft of rocks
sheltered from the morn.

But cast one glance upon her eyes, 
and spice flows forth with wakened winds.
Come my love, to my field, he says,
Rise up and come within.

Lifted are plaits of ornaments
that shielded scars beneath.
Rent is the veil that guarded her
from vulnerabilities unsheathed.

She is a cluster of henna flowers
denuded by the Foehn,
A hearth dimmed, its fire quenched,
within which embers now burn.

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