Aching

for the Hindu Kush

Babur in Farghana

The clear air crackles over the steppe,

trembles blue of a pool where breast of bird

skims the surface like a sigh.

His tunic is splattered with mud, ropes of hair

fall on eyes turbid like dark lake,

nomadic blood runs like streams that crisscross

the land his ancestors essayed.

Turban laced with sapphires cradles

rinds of melons from Farghana country.

He reads the horizon as he would a poem,

counts the rolls of hills fading purple at distance;

considers he’ll pitch his kingdom where blue

gets ashen grey.

Babur in Samarkand

Breeze from the hills blows between walls of mausoleum,

ascends on ribs of blue domed prayers

to wrap him in muteness.

The city carries memories of watercourses that

like veins rumble and knot close to the

heart of the land.

Gardens are young maidens that open their blouse,

bare pomegranates - a rash of desire smears an ache

that like a needle pricks him.

He lays her on the cool mosaic of his colonnade,

the cool stone breathing through the pores in her neck

wrapped in a turquoise band.

City pants in tumescence with sharp cries of battle,

the young emperor is the dervish spirited

by his passion for the land.

Babur in Kabul

The northern wind from the Hindu Kush

set the talisman tied to the doors jangle,

prayers of souls drowned the lake, greened

the meadow. Dead skin from wintry nights

in the cold desert fell away like vermins in

the warm embrace of smoked rhubarb

that filled the air of the hill country,

blue with traces of silver and lapis lazuli.

Fields stained red with madder roots

spread like shawl of heavens at his feet, but

he sought echoes of different nights,

visions of lands that entombed lost legacies.

Flowers of Jade on her Tomb

I am inspired for a sweetened coffee,

the cup engraved in moss colored flowers

from the tomb of Mumtaz Mahal.

Breath hangs like whisper in the silence

of the vault, pollen of thickly scented spider lily

falls like the rustle of her tussar silk.

It becomes cumbersome to remove

layers of pearl every night, women whisper

in the corners of the palace that he takes her

when she fills with eggs. It’s easy to spoil coffee

in the full view of the marble building, the moon

curdles into milk like cancerous scars from fumes,

loss and pain. Sweat from the palm leaves salt,

etchings of flowers cloud like the muddied river

as froth of coffee gently bursts raining coolness.

Poems inspired by Babur and Mumtaz Mahal