The Moor

This is what I see: a grain of wheat in the hand of a small boy barefoot on the unnamed roads, sleeping in the dream another is having. An oud, a violin, a guitar, a mirror of dew, a man about to undress, a woman staring. A traveler returning everywhere and forgetfulness stealing from itself. Maktoub, the Moor says, we hold clouds in our mouth and imagine God in our breath.