Amman sprawls¹， sun-struck， on seven

    hills， like a latter-day Rome， only

    less so. It was， in fact， once Roman，

    as the ruined theater downtown attests²，

    but today the grown children of sheikhs

    drive herds³ of camel-colored

    Mercedes down the steep wadis.

    These castoffs of the rich Gulf⁴ nations

    bellow⁵ in the narrow streets of the souk，

    where the voices of gold and silver

    merchants buzz in their beehive shops.

    The cries of muezzins from a dozen mosques⁶

    buzz likewise on the outer hills，

    blunting their stings against the double-

    glazing⁷ of the wealthy. A water peddler

    hawks⁸ the sweat of his brow in a neighborhood

    frosted with roses. How wild， how strange

    it all seems， as exotic as a rose

    thrown in the face of a thirsty man.