Samarqand
Neglected
and far away,
The old city
of Samarqand.
Nestling
after one thousand
shifting dunes
and one thousand
mysterious lands.
Far away,
The old city
of Samarqand.
Bad temper
besieged her Sultan.
A spell I reckon,
Brewed by a leman.
From his many wives
or sheltered harem.
Sometimes far away,
In the old city
of Samarqand.
Where god-fearing Imams,
Read him,
Majesty,
Some holy-Qura'an.
They washed his feet
with redolent potions,
Jasmines and lemon.
They washed his jewels
with rosé watered saffron,
Liquids long simmering
in royal fancy ewers,
Sacred water they poured
on his turbans and sheets.
Then and there,
A haunting voice,
One rebellious soul
yelled out,
Inflating his gear,
Sultan Azharkhan,
Who was timorous.
He fainted
in awesome fear,
Sultan Azharkhan.
I was born,
A dark horse.
Said that voice.
I was born
When sapphire rays
were summoned
to brighten your days.
What became of me?
I ask you all?
You kept me
a something dark.
Buried and a tiny grave,
The deepest hole.
Scorned,
I had no place
to call it home.
Vast a space,
But no star to guide me,
When vast a space.
Over chained by rusty metals,
Restrained
and my daily struggles.
Harmful winds devoured me,
This injured soul.
And this,
My vendetta.
For I'll be back
to haunt you all.
Someday,
I'll be back
to haunt you all.
Around your ailing walls,
Beneath these shaky grounds.
Clustered on them,
This aching city of
false dreams,
You call her
Samarqand.
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