The Veil Dropped Poem by Al Nabigha Al Dhubyani

The veil dropped, she did not mean to drop it.
She picked it up and shielded herself from us with her hand
With a tender, tinted palm as if its fingers
Were tendrils, on their boughs, which did not dry
And with profuse, curly, coal-black hair, its growth
Like a vine that leant against the propped trellis.
She looked at you with a need she could not express
The look of the patient at the faces of visitors.