It is true we named our own sea dead.
On the houses nearby the bougainvillea flourishes.
On the shore we call this marvel majnouneh.
The sea is a body keening, glistening in sunlit flourishes.
The tree loosening long branches over the wall is always a woman.
In the sea’s azure declination, a mineral kingdom flourishes.
Sulfur sorrow, fishless stillness is our sea.
Around the tree, the desert unfolds in sweltering flourishes.
In midday our sea is a salt-crusted silver tray.
In midday the majnouneh pulses with apian flourishes.
Middle ground, mirror glass is our sea.
Dry as paper lanterns, the fuchsia blossoms flourish.
A missive from what survives us, this vanishing, our dead sea.
Names climb the wall and evaporate in whispered flourishes.
From a distance the network of veins, all lines in elaborate display are invisible.
The walls nest beneath bright clusters in cascading flourishes.
And do your leathered hands darken to the color of this landscape?
Inkpots and their weathered scrolls rely on this dead air to flourish.
All madness is conjecture; a shepherd stumbling upon sacred verses.
The sea is ringed by a story told with fiery flourishes.
Majnouneh is obstinate charm, is a house aflame with love.
Speak salt and let them deride the landscapes where memory flourishes.