Kash Baloch — Poetry, Prose & Survival

Every desert is testament to her understated elegance; even whilst devoid of rain, their roses still bloom in resonance. With the majesty of medieval monarchy, the moon itself marvels at her magnificent mystery; conducting the stars as they sparkle brightest for her, since she is a symphony. With every cup of her you sip—you slip further under her spell. You and all your fellow men were too quick to dismiss her as just another raven-haired rebel. One thing becomes clear as you are hit by the guilt from her dreams you denied: you were threatened by the brilliance that blazes bravely behind her Bedouin eyes. It is easy and quite simple to embrace equality; even the blind can see behind your problematic patriarchy. You are angered by the branch, despite your own status as the tree. It's time you knew the truth and learned this ancient secret that was omitted from the holy texts:"Without her, even a rose is haggard—there is no beauty in her absence." ...

Every desert is a woman—each one, mysterious, and alluring. No cartel or caravan could capture her despite their concerted efforts. Instead, she has them captivated; they covet her like treasure. But she will not be bought by any bearded Bedouin! She cannot be collected in jars, or hidden away in some harem. Her Sahara will remain as free as the Arabian horse; only without a saddle can one truly experience the world. She doesn't mind that her hair is streaked with dirt, or that the soles of her bare feet have turned black. Listen closely and you'll even hear them sizzling from the scorching Saudi sun. A sly grin appears on her face as she performs a serpentine dance, intoxicating. Like smoke, she moves with sinuous grace, slithering smoothly through these sombre Syrian streets. Watch as her hips become hypnotists who stun through spins and twists like a mirage. Listen to the jingle of the coins on her belt; the same gold and silver some sultan or sheikh felt should m...