Camel-"The Ship of the Desert"

 

Camel-"The Ship of the Desert"

Clumsy and slow, yet steadfast and wise,

Across the scorching sands it strides—

A living vessel, sun-baked, lean,

The desert’s lord, its patient queen.

No hoof, but padded, soft and wide,

It treads where brittle dunes abide.

No storm of sand, no furnace air

Can halt its march through wastelands bare.

For Abraham, a wealth untold,

For Job, three thousand—priceless gold.

Through Sheba’s pomp, through caravans,

It bore the dreams of desert clans.

And as it walked, the poets sang—

Of battles fierce, of love’s sweet pang,

Of dark-eyed maids and cooling streams,

Of phantom oases in their dreams.

The rhythm swayed with every stride,

The verses matched the beast’s slow glide.

Then faster songs would lift its head,

And drive it forth where silence fled.

No water is stored in secret cells,

No magic hump where liquid dwells—

Just flesh and fat, endurance true,

And salt to drink when journeys are through.

Oh clumsy beast, so strange, so grand,

You shaped the fate of sealess land.

Without your strength, without your tread,

The desert’s songs would all lie dead.

Sham Misri

polished draft

"The Ship of the Desert"

Clumsy in gait, yet steadfast and wise,

Across the furnace-wastes it plies—

A living ark on tides of sand,

The desert’s lord, the caravans’ hand.

No iron hoof, but spreading sole,

That treads where shifting dunes unroll.

No scorching wind, no blinding glare

Can shake its march through solitudes bare.

For Abraham, vast wealth untold,

For Job, three thousand—riches cold.

Through Sheba’s train in jeweled rows,

It bore the myrrh that Persia knows.

And as it swayed, the poets spun—

Of flashing steel and love undone,

Of maidens’ eyes like twilight wells,

Of palm-shade cast by phantom spells.

Each lurching step a meter made,

Each weary mile in rhyme arrayed.

Then swifter songs would lift its face

And drive it toward some water’s grace.

No crystal flask in stomach stored,

No liquid hoard in hump secured—

Just salted thirst, endurance grim,

Then oasis-brink where waves swim.

O awkward king of wasteland wide,

Who moves with time’s own plodding stride—

The sands’ own pulse beats in your feet,

The desert’s heart in your slow heat.