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.