The Last Poem
--
i.
And we danced, yes we danced
Around and around till all the wine was poured
And all the leaves fallen, in dusty swirls
In the memory of those who danced no more
And for the exiled sadness of a new home
ii.
So many roads have been walked
And so many craters have flowered
But in Herat* I waited as long as I could between windowless walls
For the words that danced, for lines that flowed
Just before the gutless rain started to fall
iii.
If you meet her, tell her I was nearly there
I nearly loved her for ever more
I would have heard her last poem
And caught her ink-stained eyes in mine
And would have nearly caught her last fall
iv.
The diesel and dust that caught in throats
The diesel and dust that made eyes sore
Kept all glances down to bullet-strewn streets
And too many floundered in burka-hidden shame
While those with guns shamelessly hunted for unprescribed words
v.
And so we dance, yes we dance
We dance to make circles round
To not forget the names that have not been found
To clear throats and eyes of unforgotten sounds
Without words not heard for the tears in which we drown
*Herat, in Afghanistan, lays some justifyable claim to be the ‘world’ capital of poetry — or did