A storm is riding on the tide;
Grey is the day and grey the tide,
Far-off the sea-gulls wheel and cry—
A storm draws near upon the tide;

A city lifts its minarets
To winds that from the desert sweep,
And prisoned Arab women weep
Below the domes and minarets;

Upon a hill in Thessaly
Stand broken columns in a line
About a cold forgotten shrine,
Beneath a moon in Thessaly

But in the world there is no place
So desolate as your tragic face.


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  1. Absolutely love the description and is vividly haunting, sending chills on what the women go through behind close doors. Absolutely brilliant.

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