A good she-camel

The sun cooks our heads. And 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 foretold to me that will not return. Will Kuwait be a cloud that heralds what does not come? Or a mirage that eternal distance does not tire? Or a star that guides us to all roads except the road that leads to it? It seems I am dying. I realize it is a death on the back of my camel, at the moment the present enters with her son meeting Sari, and my son meets whom?.