Desert Kingdom of the Muse

Amid the sweeping golden sands, the Muse resides in her desert kingdom. In a palmyra-filled oasis, she can be found in tents made of dyed sheep's wool. Under the fecund full moon, she sits cross-legged on a rug beside the fire, sipping bitter black coffee. The Muse is in a jetblack abbayya, that covers her to her golden-jeweled wrists and her henna-covered hands stretch out from its black sleeves. Sequins adorn her cloak, and the sequins sparkle like the stars above her. Her honey-date colored eyes are lined in black kohl, and peer out from behind the black veil. Her black hair peeks out from under the black crape, and a braid falls down her back.

The multitude of stars shine above, and feel as numerous as the sands below her. Her beduin guards sit next to her; their desert songs fill the air as they are carried by the night winds, and the beat of the coffee mortar supplies the simple rhythm.

Her camels' cargo is laden with ink and ideas, as her caravan makes its way slowly from oasis to oasis. She has no time for the cities being built in the sands; the Muse knows that the sands will one day retake them like so many other desert cities that were forgotten.

It was the Muse that filled the Nabateans with the radiant pink and peach dreams to carve their stone capital Petra, and then hid it behind a veil of sand for two millennia. She is the one who fills the pilgrims with perseverance as they trod on their long journey.

But take heed, my children, for the Princess of Fear holds a mighty empire here. From a desert fortress, she stares out over her vast terrain and her minion of followers. She poisons the minds with ignorance and arrogance. I hear her vile words pouring from the mouths of too many good people. Some days, it leaves me feeling so hollow to hear her plagued ideas brandished like swords, and I feel this sword cutting on both sides of the divide. It makes my heart hurt and fills me with anguish that I can hardly decribe.

The Princess of Fear helped cut down King Abdullah as he made his ways to his prayers, as his grandson and future regent Hussein stared on. She punished Anwar Sadat's courage with a hail of bullets. She is the one who stokes the fire of the mobs; she is the martyrs' false courage.

The Queen of the Muse and the Princess of Fear are locked in an eternal clash across these lands, and it is a battle I'm afraid the the Princess of Fear may have the upper hand. The Muse illuminates the desert with her knowledge, but I fear her sun is at its eclipse, and everything is becoming dark. But in the holiest of holy lands, hope springs forever eternal and will remain there to light even the darkest hour. From the pages of Leo Africanus, the Muse left a little note and a tidbit of truth that I will end on:

"When you were a child, didn't you speak out the truth that the oldest ones kept secret? Well, you were right then. You must find the time of innocence in yourself again, because that was also the time of courage."