A halaki 1 crouches low in the dust

while the simoom 2 tugs his turban,

swirls a yellow jin around his naked feet.

Stubble peppers his chin with shadow,

he smells of charcoal and cumin.

He could be mistaken for a beggar

in this marketplace.

But sunlight anoints him like saffron;

his turquoise eyes search beyond

the Mediterranean sea. Every day

is rich with tales of coal-eyed harems,

captured kings who cannot be sacrificed

to a demanding god because they are

not whole. The halaki saves his own life

every day with stories. Strings them out

like amber prayer tesbah 3

through his calloused hands. People hungry

for meaning, drift away from Egyptian soap operas

on Morocco T.V., return to the bazaar

because his stories gild their dreams,

give them back their ancient truths.