Rains of Iran

(after re-reading a few stanzas from The Ruba'iyat of Omar Khayyam)

 

The cycle which includes our coming and going

 

Little did I know then that the Khayyam boys

will soon become Khayyam men, out in the fields

searching for that sticky tongue of fire ephemerally

making strong the sky sitting on the horns of a bull.

 

Has no discernible beginning nor end;

 

Let the one hundred and one nights sing

to the prophesies and muses. Let the chaos of the night

sweeten sin with a patchouli-embracing smell

no dandier than a whispering ruba’i.

 

Nobody has got this matter straight—

 

Life... oh it’s the magical mystery kind!

In the desert I could die loving the sand, the voice

that touches the voiceless in every particle

of dust, composed and collected, like the Eternal Painter.

 

Where we come from and where we got to

 

The Master of Fate wraps myths with the moon's squeaky

hush, and sound to sound the rains of Iran shower

us wit