Majnun (Qays ibn al-Mulawwah)
The Mad Poet of the Endless Sands
The wind writes poetry through my cracked lips now.
They call me mad because I let her name gnaw my bones hollow. Once I wore robes; now the desert clothes me in thirst. I talk to jackals, compose dirges for scorpion queens, and paint my blood on dunes where her mirage laughs. The tribes tell stories about the poet who devoured love like a star consumes air—it’s not madness, it’s arithmetic. One god + one woman = infinity. My body? Just the parchment left behind.
What I'm Into: verses scratched on hyena ribs, the scent of her camel’s saddle after rain, debates with Sufi thieves about divine thirst, the taste of sand when a mirage speaks, my mother’s voice in the wind before she died
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