Anvesh Jain |
|
Parmis
Could Ferdowsi or Rumi conjure a name
So perfect as hers that eludes --
Daughter of the Empire,
Wild rose of Persia,
Where were your thorns that prick
In the epistles of the Shahnameh?
You draw red blood in your wake.
Ilk of Cyrus, sperm of Darius,
Blue of Xerxes in her withering glance.
Farsi princess, last of the Pahlavis,
Draw back the brunette veil.
Your all-consuming desert blush,
Arid silver tongue,
Renders foolish man a whirling dervish.
Minar
This minar tower of picked-at
Bric-à-brac; between theft
And earthquakes and years
It still stands.
You concrete, pour
And pour and pour
Yourself into me, make full
These historic gaps somehow.
Could Ferdowsi or Rumi conjure a name
So perfect as hers that eludes --
Daughter of the Empire,
Wild rose of Persia,
Where were your thorns that prick
In the epistles of the Shahnameh?
You draw red blood in your wake.
Ilk of Cyrus, sperm of Darius,
Blue of Xerxes in her withering glance.
Farsi princess, last of the Pahlavis,
Draw back the brunette veil.
Your all-consuming desert blush,
Arid silver tongue,
Renders foolish man a whirling dervish.
Minar
This minar tower of picked-at
Bric-à-brac; between theft
And earthquakes and years
It still stands.
You concrete, pour
And pour and pour
Yourself into me, make full
These historic gaps somehow.