"When
Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept; for there were no more worlds
to conquer."
-Plutarch
O faceless child of a faceless mother,
come down to the future garden
where the fragility of peach blossoms
opens up its scent unto one moment.
In that oasis, I could not conquer
a single sunburnt pool of tears.
The sun is still a knife of fire
whose blazing arc can’t turn its thrust,
but sheds a blood into each cracked riverbed
that confounds the resurrected light.
In the distances, a fanfare
plays earpiercingly away and is gone.
And already there is nothing more.
The pyramid at Giza is crumbling
in ruins before your feet,
and all the gardens are hanging at your speech.
Say the world is just made up
of seven colors, with nowhere further east of us,
and nowhere further south, and no sea beyond
the Jhelum River. Feel the roads of India
passing through me, unto the final siege,
the farthest march, and last farewell.
No comments:
Post a Comment