by Jamila B.C. | August 6, 2007

An essay on Kipling, citars and candlelight,
incense, my bubbling hookah
And walking outside, thick and hot air
a low, potent moon
I hear the tyger's roar

Sweet Brazilian coffee one hot morning
and walking outside, a wall of moisture
hanging over the pond still as stone

Stepping in and out of landscapes
from the shelves of books
spanning some 300 years
to the cats hiking the Atlas mountains,
spreading out on the carpet
to the trickling fountain merging with
the soundtrack and the scent of mint
filling the misty bathroom