When the nomads come over the hill
on the wheatstraw camels
the angel of joy crawls down a long hallway
and the green vegetables in the abandoned cart
pour into blue flames
old men by the fountain rise
and bid one another adieu
the bright sun is rinsed in blackest ink
snakes sleep on their backs
around the golden sundial
giant night hides in the storyteller’s pupils
and the wind is divided
by a well-placed needle
when the nomads come over the hill
with their invisible language.