I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in vain
The way these lyrics go, there is something decidedly egyptian about the notes, the way they sort of echo-coalesce; you suddenly stop and listen; and you can see a figure cloaked in black, arms beseeching heavenwards, amidst miles of sanddunes, and you forget the apartment by the track this surprising piece of music is playing from. Sting! Desert rose. Here? Whoever would have thought.
Now we say her poetry is exquisite, yearning, demands, passion and obeisance all put into one, but legend has it she laughed and cried at the same time, gesticulating and holding dialogues in echoing excited gibberish with the air and pink sandstone walls. They called her a mad woman anyway, as they had for long; whoever heard of a blue-blooded princess gallivanting the streets of unknown cities, dancing to the songs of her own making? But it didn’t matter. Did it bother her? Did it matter that she was talking into a vaccum? Wasn’t she gloriously happy and lavished in a warm cocoon of her own making? I now understand.
(about a figure from Indian history)