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When the water first left us, so did the birds   Manzour1, the great white pelican, no longer flew over our disappeared shores His excessive grunt was arrested, he was denied the pleasure of dipping his feet in the water like before    When the water first began to leave us, it was the year 20302 and panic ripped through our town like a swarm of locusts The fishermen, in the dead of night, called on their mystic, Umm Qays, to perform the ritual of Irja’ ya bahr, whose song asks for the return of the sea Umm Qays emerged from her abode, a clay house with white windows, carrying a bright flame that revealed the kohl under her eyes ‘Said and Radi, take me to the manba’3,’ she said to the youngest of the fishermen Arriving at the last source of water, she knelt in front of it, kissing the sand, and as her lips drew to the shore it turned crimson    ‘Said, Radi, lift me up,’ she said She sat on their shoulders as her words poured down ‘Irja’ ya bahr, enough oh sea, Irja’ ya bahr, enough oh sea, Irja’ ya bahr, enough oh sea’ She commanded the water to end its mischief     Said and Radi, with their limbs arranged in perfect symmetry, lifted Umm Qays higher as her voice got louder Her words entered their bodies, and as they chanted they formed a single tapestry of sound: ‘It is your Lord who drives the ship for you through the sea that you may seek of His bounty Indeed, He is ever, to you, merciful!’    Umm Qays licked the flame she was carrying in her arm and it grew into a majestic, bright light It took over the sky, covering the few stars ‘Now,’ she said, as she buried the flame in the water The fishermen, with their eyes falling to their knees, recited silent prayers, hoping the extinguished flame would bring an end to their anguish   But their optimism was cruel, as was Umm Qays’ promise The water did not return   *   After years of drought, our government