Moroccan Sands Carry the Red Hours

Through the narrow alleys, the red hours drift,

woven in spices and warm, rising dust.

Copper bowls catch the fading light,

letting it spill across the silent arches.

Patterns on the rugs shift with each breeze,

stories turning over themselves again.

A distant drumbeat loosens the air,

calling no one, yet shaping every street.

Saffron shadows lean across the walls,

moving like soft-tongued flames.

Moroccan sands carry the red hours,

rolling their warmth across my hands.

Every step stirs a forgotten rhythm,

every breath follows the moving lands.

Lanterns sway above the market paths,

their glass trembling with quiet gold.

A line of voices hums behind the crowd,

half-song, half-memory, never choosing a form.

Tiles gleam with fading fire,

blue and green remembering rain.

The city listens to its own breath,

slow as an evening prayer with no words.

Moroccan sands carry the red hours,

rolling their warmth across my hands.

Every step stirs a forgotten rhythm,

every breath follows the moving lands.

And when the moon slips down the roofs,

the red hours gather once more—

gentle, unbroken,

waiting for the next wandering feet.