The gazals I memorized in school are ancient poems, somewhere between a fairy tale and a story of eternal longing. In the poems I read from Nizami, I could never imagine a young maiden trotting about on ordinary, mortal legs. Beautiful young maidens float inches above the ground. Either that, or they dance. Their arms and hands tell a story. Their eyes are mirrors. Their dance is pure metamorphosis - from flesh and blood into light, memory, and song.
Fog At Dawn
somewhere between fairy tale
and a story of eternal longing
an ordinary mortal
floating inches above the ground
your eyes spelling flesh and magic
you are relentlessly absorbing;
frost on ornamental gourds
hollow, precious, rattling ceremonial
the precious kiss
a river where history bends its knees
and my heart submerges
dark and violent
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