The Great Mosque Of Cordoba
By James Corbett
Paradise, after holy hour of dawn, after brunt of weapons, armour, itch of night, the last oasis,
the day again, and after bird
of prey, the empty skin, and scorpion is, after all, always water.
Dream of water: houris, naked, plunge and swim to kiss, like carp, the hands
that splash and splash and splash and splash. The lilac spreads a garden couch.
The tamarind allows the sun to play.
The orchard yields upon the lap.
And then arrive; then irrigate the soul with thanks and praise: the spray of text from alabaster fountains raised
above the marble pool, the jets
of light, the tidal flow of arch on arch, and cool horizon everywhere.
And never, ever, sand, and not the gleam that disappoints a thirst; that mocks
the need to wash for prayer; that guides to any other house than this:
the battlemented walls, the minaret, the oceanic breadth and depths.
