…my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land. Psalm 63:1

Each dusk,
the three virgins gathered
beneath the twisted acacia tree.
Draped in light,
they sat in silence
pouring tea—
waiting for their prince.

He had been barely fifteen,
when the tribes rose
to battle Abdulhamid.
Armed with his father’s dagger
he kissed the virgins’ brows:
“Wait for me beneath the tree,” he said.
“I will return with the winds of May.”

Since then, they had come
at the hour of Maghrib—
first with certainty,
then with hope,
and now with memory.

Days passed.
Years drifted.
The winds came and went.
The dunes shifted beneath them.
They climbed hills.
They prayed to the moon.

But he never returned.

One day, word came:
he had vanished
beyond the sea.

The virgins aged.
They withered.
They died…


They say that at Wadi M’Zab,
when the red fades in the west,
you may still glimpse
three silent figures,
veiled in white,
pouring tea
beneath a twisted tree.