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.

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