Saturday, July 16, 2011

Love Song of an Afghan Prince c. 1530

Our two countries are sleeping.
They are connected by a stone stairway
leading to the dawn perched on your shoulder. 

The night is a guest in this forest.
The mouth having drunk
relives your name. 

The mirror and the flooding river are
calling each other through the room.
Two lights caught in dark shelves. 

Our two centuries are sleeping.
The sound of the birds in the fountain
are borne by the afternoon light.

The night’s lamp discovers
a body that sometimes
moves in its dream.

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