The darkness of this night is greater
Than the power of a sultan.
Ink from my books, shelf upon shelf of them,
Pours down the curtains.
Every book is an overturned inkwell.
Patience, I say. Day will dawn,
And the colours will spill everywhere.
Snatching up the brush,
I try to paint the walls green,
The curtains rosy pink,
But now the waves come washing in:
Blue – with light’s sporadic wink.