Why I love Scheherazade

by Varun Ramrakhiani

 

Of old old sands
I know nothing

Of the coursing channel
The partitions olden made
And my father's children
I know nothing

Of the seven hanging poems
Like prehistoric eggs
And their wailing and emptiness
Their summons of desire
For the cold acts of contemplation
I know nothing

Of all the forced sounds
And the chambers to which they lead
Their dreams of easts beyond easts
The adventures imagined in reverie
I know nothing

Of the beggar his watches and stump
The idols carved inside his home
His speeches frantic like a winding fire
The banks where he lay and cried
I know nothing

Of my home whose pictures I have
The people and their fate accorded
The goodness of their obscurity
Their glad sameness
I know nothing

Of places far better
I know nothing

 

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