Author: Sheikha A.

The stones have drunk her

footprints, and in the manner


of a proper uninhibited stupor,

they have smattered errantly


on a clear moonlit path, her red

robe supplies the wind with


buoyancy, floating behind her

like a supine shadow. The smaller


flowers cower in their buds

while the prouder ones stand


chest-front against the distanced

howling of a possible night


watchdog, but Red knows the woods

are an enticement:


the path of deathlessness.


If the desire to live counted as a sin,

she was the Cain of gluttony


for want of immortality. Her basket

of sweet cakes is laid at the centre


of a chalk drawn circle, she holds

a lighted candle to the cumulating


grey clouds, the silence holds its

breath in fear of being heard;


her pink lips tonight shall receive

their first kiss;


she shakes the hood off her head

letting her golden mane shine


brighter than the fireflies, she waits

till the clouds have undressed


the moon, the stars curl up

like truant seasons, she howls


back to the moaning woods.