To Weep for the Troubador |
Long before Aqraba by way of Jericho sat the small village of Rammun, where the Sultan liked to go and drink wine. He arrived by evening straight into the secluded farm of the Emir on the hills, where the dark village below, lit only with the occasional oil lamp turned low, could be seen in its entirety. The guards would remain outside. He sat on the small terrace with a low table, two cushions, and a clay jug sealed with wax stood alone with a porcelain glass waiting for him. A servant would then pour the wine without meeting the sultan´s eyes. The wine was dark, almost black, drawn from vines older than memory. For a few moments guarded by the bitterness of the grapes, the sultan would feel Cairo far and Damascus further still. No petitions, no judges, no crowds chanting his name. Just stone walls and the low wind passing through the olive leaves like a whisper in the corridors of time.
Certain summer night, emboldened........