When summoned in the purity of heart, I never fail to appear, said the Crimson Angel, and took my burden from me.
Today, I have been walking unburdened in the City of Men. Like all cities with an important immigrant population, Lisbon has visibly more men than women, although unfortunately Arabs are very few. For some reason, most of them come from Greater India: Pakistanis, Nepalis, etc., together with the obvious black African population. The natives are sometimes nicely built and big eyed, but they are in general tiny men, too small for me. Some of the Pakistanis might be the best option under the circumstances, but I sorely miss the noblest race (as defined by al-Mutannabi).
Meanwhile, I still listen to Imam al-Ossi emotional recitation that goes on undulating and fast and crisp like a mountain stream. He has the crystalline voice of a desert shab (roughly the equivalent of the Greek term ephebos), while he actually grew up from shab to the kind of almond-eyed Arab I wouldn't like to meet in a narrow street of Amsterdam - just as I wouldn't like to meet a fully grown tiger, lion or leopard. Various of his pious clips count millions of views. I wonder how many women across the Islamic world see him as the living perfection of a man upon the face of the earth. Perhaps in twenty years, when the Crimson Angel comes for them, those Sekielski brothers from Poland, who now try in vain to scandalise their Catholic public with yet another guilty bishop, might make a more persuasive movie on women who love imams.
I still dream of white horses. It's a long time I didn't ride and never truly felt I might miss it so bitterly. I dream about white horses in undulating gallop, tails in the wind.
I dream of swarthy men, galloping in the wind, wild, untamed, beautiful.