In a bright, hot blue bath of air
The waning day's thick mantle spreads.
Palms rear their green, effulgent heads;
Muezzins call the flocks to prayer.
The sun, in this mid-eastern place,
Is round, and dusty gold, and strange.
If I knew methods to exchange
This place for glimpses of your face,
I'd trade exile in dry Afghanistan
For freedom in a tamer land.