High on the plateau,
welcoming nomads,
Shiraz gives them
refreshment in the cool
Of altitude and the
shade of high trees.
Ample contrast seduces
visitors –
visitors –
Wide streets,
tree-lined, in the Zand capital –
A dynasty long gone and
briefly strong –
Brusque bazaar, manly
mosques, without a breeze.
Great poets, not kings,
define this city:
Hafez from six hundred
years before us –
To celebrate love, wine, music – acclaim!
He speaks of a softly
moving creature:
As we read we see once
again a glimpse
Of Persia’s rich culture
and classic fame.
Saadi recalls even earlier
times.
We murmur together his
tomb's chief pledge
To emit the perfume of
love itself,
Thrilling his mourners
for one thousand years.
Mausoleums and gardens
invite us –
Which poet’s flag-stone
will we bend to touch
And make our tribute as
all Persians do?
Surely though our
gesture is in our tears.
Tears for the ways the
lords of our days treat
Gentle Shiraz, its roses
and poets -
Even the wine has been confiscated.
But as for me – I could
get drunk on love
In this paradise of
measured parklands.
If only that were not
forbidden too!
How Saadi must weep at
the bitter sting
When political push
descends to shove.
Still, for now, there
are reasons to rejoice
At the colors of the
carpets and kilims -
Precious gifts of
Qashqais and other tribes -
Who come in from well
worn tracks of the south.
You, me, primed to
revolt with deep longing,
Decide to linger near
the cypress trees,
Dare to indulge desire by flower beds,
Your kiss of sweet rose
water on my mouth.
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