Like clinging swallows.
In the midst up-swam
The Sultan’s palace with its faint blue domes,
The moons of morning.
Wreaths of frankincense
Floated around me as I entered in.
A thousand thousand warrior faces thronged
The glimmering streets. Blood-rubies burned like stars
In shadowy silks and turbans of all hues.
The markets glowed with costly merchandise.