VULNERABLE AND DESPERATE

By the far horizons, the sun's golden disk sinks deep at dusk. The city turns gray illuminating in the remnant rays of the sun. The winds whisper by the paths lifting the dirt that now swirls in a rhythmic dance of the breeze. The lumps of clouds glitter from the ashy full moon's light. Like the stars of the heavens, the concrete jungle lights up through its windows. Urban musics from every corner rise in crescendo chocking the air that is now filled with aromas from the roadside smocha vendors. Night gathers in Ajuj City. The sin city.

It is the sixth day of the week. We stand by the gates basking in the floodlight's yellow glow. We graze on khat leaves and nuts bulging our cheeks on one side. On the other, we roll and open our muzzles to drink on carbonated lemon libation. Our heads lazily swing and drop to the beat of the urban hits. We graze silently; our eyes affixed to pedestrians, to cars...anything that moves. By these grounds, we lurk. It's the cold season, and the herd is hungry.

Like iron filings in a magnetic flux, the sons and daughters of men emerge from their dwellings and converge in a mass at Contenas. Beings plunge in liquor and wreathe in the smokes of cigarettes. In scattered circles their heads meet to plan for the night. For hours acquaintances will meet and greet. Form of plans change and some happen. Many will awaken at dawn in unknown residences they've never stepped their feet into. Intoxicated; their heads heavy; their bodies weak. Some will enjoy by the companies of the circles and retire to their dwellings. Few will remain in desperation oblivious of the ungodly hours. Oblivious of their few numbers and vulnerability. At these ungodly times, the herd moves.

The hunting grounds were fairly easy. Or rather the preys. Either is fine. The herd would disperse and some would dissolve in the dark after enriching with the belongings of the vulnerable. Some would prey on the desperate daughters of men. A vast majority in the herd preferred the latter.

The storm rages in the drunken sea,

rocking your boat.

From afar we see,

thy hands incapable to steer.

Vulnerable and desperate.

The winds billow your coat,

revealing your feeble legs

that unstably move in gait.

And in lust we stare,

by the shores where we wait.

And so we would seductively lure the drunk daughters. By their laughter and clothing, we would gauge our prey. She who laughs loudest, to capture attention, is easiest. She who dresses loosely in revealing, is desperate.

In the nights like these we would indulge in a sensational spree. Aggressively and gentle; bitter sweet; our bodies would writhe and soak in fluids. Rhythmically and continuously, we would stir and thrust to agitate the waters in the well. Our tongues would flick and wiggle like snakes down the thorny shrubs. Our hooks sinking deep in their flesh, bloody and raw, we earnestly sought to that moment we would tightly squeeze our souls out. In that moment, time stood still and our bodies would freeze in death. La petite mort. We fall apart to our backs gasping for air; our legs shaking in the sheets of our miserable youths.

Like in the flipping and turning of compost, exposing the fresh and baked, smoking out from the warmth of the heat, and covering the dried beneath, we would hunt again to capture the fresh. The cycle would continue again and again. But the youth is the passing of winds: felt in the moment, but escapes in the midst of it. Eventually, the herd narrowed from the consequences of theft, some in the agonies of infections, some in the duties of child bearing and some reformed.

***

By the far horizons, the sun's golden disk sinks deep at dusk. It is the sixth day of the week. I'm sat at the balcony of my estate overlooking my acreage. In the fields, my two admirable daughters ride on horses. They engage in fun and joyous talk. It is beautiful to watch them grow. The elder of the duo rides in a loose shirt of silk that grabs on her back, visibly imprinting her bosom and the youngest laughs loudest in delight. The farm-boy attending to a compost heap, flipping and turning, turns to watch. The cycle still continues. Pathetic!