Requiem for a Spring Night

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Under the mild heat of early spring air,

I remember you as you were

when we walked across golden fields, leading to

tombs adorned with rampant worship.

Threads tied to these holy shrines

are like firmaments still, and burn in the delirious light

of many a passionate lamps,

ushering caravans of barren prayers,

some mine, some belonging to the faceless throng;

while I dance in a ruined tavern

under the reign of the harvest moon

with a desiccated heart, half-moon eyes,

Hafez’s verses, and a broken cup of wine.