Amman sprawls， sun-struck， on seven

    hills， like a latter-day Rome， only

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

    as the ruined theater downtown attests，

    but today the grown children of sheikhs

    drive herds of camel-colored

    Mercedes down the steep wadis.

    These castoffs of the rich Gulf nations

    bellow 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 mosques

    buzz likewise on the outer hills，

    blunting their stings against the double-

    glazing of the wealthy. A water peddler

    hawks 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.