el batanabi wrote the heart of our silken tanab, what need have we for you? no poem has ever enough red but that its blood might river beneath the veins of its people. beneath the desert sun, one man by one man by one man breathes six. thousands of tons wrung sonorous from the sky. where is god? black-eyed woman, the street dogs are running wild. will you save me? simple white ignorance, even the desert has gone into hiding. there is no more meaning here than the crested moon holds towards a dying grove of date trees. i am for the arabic, for the transcription of the arabic, zato dates over fire-baked bread. the twin rivers have already called for us a history. our poets have already explained to us the desert. by what right have you come? who have you have seen the rustic crane in the tree, no chimes but for its delicate wide beak, ushers an intemperate reprieve? 33 beads on a string, why pretend to know beyond the presence of click. thank you. please welcome gale sher >> the first one is why did she care? why did she care, she wondered, laying aside the boo