The Red City

of the little girl of the Atlas mountains cloaked by spectres

she grew quiet and pink

the snow drifted her shapes

she bade adieu to the day

and the nights of Marrakesh became her thief and her poet

she painted subtle winds

cool as night

and she blazed in the pallid morn glowing like nacreous pearl

all her colours became ghosts

she had been born in those mountains decades before others drew existence

or breath

and she had been dead in that place for years