Epitaph of my Grandfather
Are you not now more tranquil in your silent grave?
Beside the crumbling shade of this noble mosque,
These broken minarets can cause you no ill humor;
Each crack reveals a fresher, heart-rending testimony
Of those shreds of life from which you chose to rise,
Determined to turn the last scrap of feeling to stone;
Your aspirations you suffered then, some suffer now.
We see today your will, your idyllic fortification
With three watchtowers rising, wearied with old age
Of keeping constant vigil across the fertile lands
That you learned to possess in ever expanding spirals.
Forgive me if I lack all well-deserved respect
For the zeal with which you bought and bought and died;
I’ve learned to cherish the thought behind the red-eyed gaze
Which your dwelling, at the heart of thriving fields,
Still dares to cast at cosmos, keeping you alive.
Are you not now more tranquil in this moss-grown grave?
