A truant moon has shamed the sky
When the darkest hour is nigh
My muse has chosen to desert
When the thirst is high for the art
The master flutist lost his handle
His status now a sulfurous saddle
In the absence of my prized muse
I can’t scribble stories with maze
What steps do I dance in the square
When my poems poor they fare?
The colourful feathers of the pheasant
Faded on the day it scheduled a tryst
Fluency fled: our orator is humbled
He tumbled over words and bubbled
Dear god, if this poem earns me some scold
It’s because you imbue my horizon with cloud
Please come back to me my first love
That my dryland would blossom to grove
It was in your cult that I first spilled blood
Yet I am not retiring my sword to scabbard
By
By Abdulaziz Abdulaziz
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