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From the Thousand and One Nights

We grow to the sound of the wind
Playing his flutes in our hair,


Palm tree daughters,
Brown flesh Bedouin,
Fed with light
By our gold father;


We are loved of the free-tented,
The sons of space, the hall-forgetters,
The wide handed, the bright-sworded
Masters of horses.


Who has rested in the shade of our palms
Shall hear us murmur ever above his sleep.