“When Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept; for there were no more worlds to conquer.”
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 in 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 land beyond
the Jhelum River. Feel every road in India
passing through me, unto the final loot,
the farthest march, and last salute.