The Black Wells

 

“What did I have?” said the old Arab man,

“What did I have before the roaring machines?”

I had palm trees whispering in desert wind,

Dates like honey in the hands of my sons,

A quiet well, a camel’s slow shadow,

And stars that belonged to no one but God.

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Then strangers came with maps and promises,

Eyes fixed not on my trees but the earth below.

They said the sand was rich with black rivers,

And the desert would shine with golden wealth.

My palms were cut, the wells grew taller than minarets,

And the night filled with the thunder of engines.

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“What did I gain?” said the tired old man,

“What did the desert gain from this black fire?”

Cities rose where the dunes once wandered,

But soldiers marched where children once ran.

The wind carried smoke instead of prayers,

And the sky learned the color of war.

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Decades passed like drifting sandstorms,

Kings changed, flags rose and fell.

My sons grew into men with rifles,

Their sons into shadows in distant wars.

The oil burned bright in foreign lands,

While my village counted its ghosts.

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“What do I have now?” the old Arab whispered,

“I still have the desert and its memory.”

A few stubborn palms beside a silent road,

A cracked well that remembers sweet water.

And somewhere beneath the restless sand,

The earth still keeps its dark secret.

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But one day, when the fires grow quiet,

And the wells finally fall asleep,

Perhaps the wind will plant new palms again,

And children will taste the old sweetness of dates.

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I have lived long enough to know this truth:

No oil, no gold, no kingdom is worth a grave.

For the desert does not ask for blood,

Only for patience, shade, and quiet water.

And the wars of men fade like footprints in sand,

But the grief of mothers stays like the desert sun.