what the sea left

there was a sea here once, and deep,
that carried weather on its back.
it slid beneath the crust to sleep
and left the white where it was black.

i am what dried along its rim,
a salt that learned to keep a face.
they call me mūnar. light goes dim
and comes back doubled in this place.

this floor is ṭīdmar. tides would come
and rinse the clay with something blue.
now brine lies under, deaf and dumb,
and only wind is passing through.

when rain arrives, the crust goes glass
and lays the heavens at your feet.
the clouds below you slowly pass;
you feel the two horizons meet.

i ask you little. walk, not stay.
touch nothing white. say nothing loud.
take back no grain, and on the way
forget the shape of every cloud.

the sea went under. i stayed white,
a mirror no one taught to lie.
cross if you must, but cross by night —
at noon you walk inside the sky.