An east of blue blown bruise and cloud
A west of striated pink slashed like a razor
The olive branches are grooved with shadows, their color always a thin ghost of itself
And the call to prayer rattles round the ribcage of belief
Electric-green minarets up-down a valley’s flanks
I watch the shudder of light as the green and amber glass flares, mosaic,
Like the scales of an adder writhing into sun,
Like the scales of an adder writhing into sun.

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