The Rābiʿah of Samarkand

And so I wait for something plush,
Something decisive beside the tomb
Of Timur’s wife. Before Taj Mahal
There was this mosque. Ninety five
Elephants, ten thousand precious stones
And the conquest of the world rest here.
Love Does this and quieter things:
It moves hearts to works of courage
And to deceit. I have yearned to see
The work of the heart in you,
Like this courage, like these lies,
Gratitude that cannot last
But leaves a glistening impression
On the mind and makes the heart
Burn with possibility. You are
Merely the gateway: I smell the spice-sellers
On you, hawking, and the worshipers unsure
Where to turn because of you, you are so much
I cannot see or know or say.
Here under the tiles Bibi Khanum lies dead and even
This magnificence could not save her reputation,
For the architect’s kiss was so hot
It left a burning scar upon her face, a wound
That even Tamburlaine in all his glory
Could not ignore or forgive.