In the books of Rumi, you are a lover of leaving
Plucking the ecstatic strings
Of the rubabs of my grieving.
Let me hear the tinkling of your anklets
The exquisite sound of the beasts' bells
As they trudge into Samarkand.
Your soft hips are laden with riches,
I grip them as I would reams of silk
And other wonders of that ilk.
I look at the mounds on your chest
And I remember the blue domes nudging the sky.
I am Timur in your Registan
Only I will never reach my Hindustan.
In your eyes is my madrasah
Where I learnt the secrets of Bukhara.
Shirin, Shirin. I know I am only a traveller.
You will allow my solitary caravan rest in your sarai
Only for this night, for the Route is arduous.
In light of day, I will have to go
To govern with an iron hand and weak heart
For you have made me the satrap
Of the province of nothingness.
All of Persia calls me a modern day Farhad
Only our tongue has changed
In our tempered attraction
We speak today of investment and non-disclosure
But like the time when they would ride, glassy-eyed, to Ferghana
Our eyes still speak without speech, drink without lips.