To A Depraved Lying Woman

If I were dead in the Desert as you would like me to be
would not your lies be luxuriant, many-coloured on my
corpse. For every grain of dry sand choking my mouth and
eye, you would have a lie to match it Himeimat would
not be such a pile. There would not be a corpse between
El Ragil and bloody Eleut El Tamar who would not prefer
as clothing his load of sand to your nimble lie. After your
adultery and Nancy-boy who misled you with his warm
money, your ready lie would put a cloak over the sordidness
of your vicissitudes.