I rise

I rise,

I rise from a wilted rose,
Blooming in your cheeks,
And from a grass spikelet,
Dewed in those pink eyes.

I rise inasmuch as,
My body sleeps below the soil...

For thirty dense years, in Ar- Rihla*,
Sighing, and marveling at my travel inside,
Ibn Battuta* lies calm on your thigh!

I rise,

I rise from my arid breast,
Like the verses and chants,
And from the quiet promise,
Of meeting you... in the end.

I rise... wherefore,
A dallied tryst I must now behold.

*Ar- Rihla - The journey
*Ibn Battuta - One of the greatest travelers of all time.