The desert was a kind of orangish-gold,
With hints of pink,
Theirs was a bond similar to the earth and the sculptor,
She was just a clay doll feeling incomplete,
Without the touch of the potter,
He blew into her the breath of life,
Whatever she exude comes from him,
Night poured over the desert,
It came suddenly, with a gorgeous blueness,
In the clear air, the stars drilled down out of the sky,
He is her identity,
He flows in her veins, like the camels journeying the wet dunes,
He fills up her thoughts, with the colours of his rainbow,
In his colours, she is basked.