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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.


  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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