Unassuming, steady, dark, mysterious,
They hide the force of a goddess.
A tinge of the lonely spirit of the desert entices you,
Like the dry, but very fragrant scent of a desert shrub.

You approach them cautiously,
Ever respectful of their authority,
Ever wondering whether you’re playing with them,
Or whether they are preparing you for the sacrificial altar of fools.

Throwing all caution to the Levantine wind,
Your hand touches hers, and you connect with her desert daimon.
A searing, indescribable, arid energy surges through your frail body,
Filling it with hope, with love, and with a soaring human thrill.

You take that energy and taste it with your parched lips,
They begin to moisten, as the love of the goddess graces you.
Yet, yet, there she sits,
Centred and impassive, trained well in the art of motionlessness,
That art, that is second nature to creatures of the desert,
By virtue of eons of Saharan heritage.

She watches you with the most penetrating, unnerving, desert-hue eyes,
You have ever had the misfortune to be watched by,
As you waft closer to her lips, pathetically attempting to be invisible,
Ha! You transparent creature,
How can you ever hope to trick the trickster?

You hesitate, thinking of that sacrificial altar of fools,
But, it’s no use,
You’re drawn inexorably towards your delicious destiny,
To taste her untasteable lips,
A mere doorway to delights unknown to mere mortals.

She, now, takes the reins, her endless patience at an end,
Wearied by your ineptitude.
Fire scorches your mortality, and you cease to exist,
As she plunges you into the realm of the desert gods.

You have indeed been sacrificed,
But, out of sheer and ageless mercy, not necessarily on the altar of fools,
As she offers you her magnificent and unspeakable all,
She wonders, whether you’ll prove worthy,
And you, you mere man, will you be able to stand?