The blue-skinned Tuareg smiled and held out his hand,
“Welcome to Timbuktu, the mysterious city,” he said.
I had heard of eunuchs and unicorns, virgins and verdigris, instead
he led me through empty streets to the ruined mosque
where I brushed off showers of blood-red dust.
“C’est un grand nom,” the Tuareg laughed, “mais c’est rien.”
(this poem is from the light user scheme)