The darkness of this night is greater
than the power of a sultan.
Ink from my books, shelf upon shelf of them,
streams down the curtains.
Every book is an overturned inkwell.
Patience, I say. Day will dawn,
And the colours begin to spread. Snatching the brush,
I strive to paint the curtains the rose of dawn,
and the walls, green.
Now waves come washing in, blue flecked with white,
above the shelves.