A good camel

The sun is cooking our heads. And there is no water near me, and sweat does not quench thirst. I have nothing and the little one except patience on the whips of the sun, and milk from a udder we crowded with dialogue, and a prophecy that a cloud told me would not return. Will Kuwait be a cloud that heralds what does not come? Or a mirage that no eternal distance tires? Or a star that guides us to all paths except the one leading to it? It seems I am dying. I realize it is a dead body on the back of my camel, at the time when the present woman with her son meet Sari, and my son meets who?