Mayed Al Qasimi's Official Website

As the fresh, awakening wooden breeze
So sharply and smoothly brushes my cheek
And the crunchy, crippling cloud I walk on
Reminds me of times I do wish to keep

I fall fast to this fast fall of tall trees
Vociferously my conscience doth shriek
For I am to see not what is foregone
But what has been yet unfrozen, I weep