Minaret of You

For the umpteenth time, the sun flares its solaris routines. Painting the stroke of a wolf's tail, as a sign of dawn. Its color rises straight up, as if tickling the sky. Mouthpieces of minaret sound faintly, racing with the air swirling. Sometimes major, sometimes minor, beautiful as if the waves are rocking. Turning a quarter radial, He swept across the narrow space, open his pupils to get an aperture, dimly seeing her twinkling eyes. How demons turned into his devils. Undesignated seventh heaven. I'm next to you, He said. I am your face and your eyes, she answered. Even though your nose was hit with a sword?