Children cry for her favors, women weep.
But she chooses the soldiers first.

She gathers them in to the folds
of her multicolored robes
one at a time, on different nights.

Persia sings softly
as she braids her hair
into sympathetic strings
until the sitar notes fade.

No man talks about it after,
no matter his strength,
no matter his standing.

A land of purple skies,
villages on hills of jagged rocks,
land locked beneath the sun
and endless sand.

She comes on a hot wind,
vanishes shrouded in storms.

None know who or what she is, but
she always chooses the soldiers first.
For this, the people love her.