To Omar Khayyam
Today, I write to you –
Poet, tent maker, dreamer
of wandering quatrains,
singer of melodies, stolen
from the Bird of TimeÉ
I - a dark woman from Hind,
now in a wind-battered
caravanserai, somewhere
on the Irish sea, drunk
in your Sufi wine – drown
in your yesterdays, todays
and tomorrows, É.
Yesterday, you fed the
deserts with your loaf
of bread and cup after
cup of wine, turning
the sands into gold;
Your words guided
dawn's left hand in
the sky and challenged
destiny that played
with men for piecesÉ
Today, there are fires in
your deserts for there is
a dark elixir that drowns
the world in its fragrance;
Iram indeed is gone with
all its Rose and there is
a lot of talk of Thee and Me;
The quarrel of the Universe
has come to your doors;
Fires burn and dust descends
into the dark couch of earth :
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer;
Phantom figures roam your sandsÉ.
Come back dreamer, with your
magic shadow-shows, your
ruby vintage, your chequer
boards of visions and flute
in the mystic calls of:
O danad! O danad! O danad!
My moving finger follows your
songs and writes and writes –
Come back, S‡ki! Bring back
Man's forgiveness in the give
and take!
Fling yet another stone into
the bowl of night and capture
darkness in your noose of light!
Weave yet another tapestry
of dreams and quench the
world with yet another Rub‡iy‡tÉ
Notes: