The sand that’s in my eye blew in from Africa.
And sand’s a form of grit – that much I know.
And grit makes pearls that lovely fashionistas
take out for strolls along Bayswater Road.
I’ve no such milky jewel of clarity
to pierce the darkness, translate this din.
I test an Arab curse learned from my father:
May all of Egypt piss on this Khamsin–
may all the sand contained in the Sahara
rinse itself down some infernal sink–
for coming right when nobody required her,
when every path’s distinctly indistinct
except one path – the road to anarchy.
Remember Gunter. Was it Eich or Grass?
Be sand not oil in the world’s machinery.
Your words now. Say that, should someone ask.