Walking Past the Al Waha Club
How humbly sleeps
The portulaca at my feet
While the tiny tips of shiny grass
Hang captive lights
From the lamps in the street
My footsteps hurry after the scent
Of waking chrysanthemums
Around the bend
And linger awhile
By the copse near the swings
Where children shout and laugh and scream
Till the evening dies-
And the generous moon
Continues to shine
On the voices and the flowers
And the shadows
And I
