Deilí
Os cionn an daingin mar a bheadh builín briste ann solas na gréine chomh géar le raidis.
Féar is clocha ina luí
i bhfothrach Tughlaqabad.
Scáileanna sna háirsí: áirsí faoi scáth: Khirki Masjid. Céimeanna ina sraith ag imeacht tríd an tsúil mar shnáthaid
Ag Jama Masjid.
An Qutb ina cholgsheasamh, ón bhfréamh go scornach.
Bolaithe i ngach ball:
Bia, feoil, fuil, príosúin agus páláis,
Ó inné, ó na cianta anall.
An anáil gafa agus greamaithe sa mhóimint seo,
An tsúil beo, ar fan tríd an am atá thart
Go ngabhann isteach trí na scoilteanna i dtuama Ghalib,
Cnámha calctha Khankhanan á lorg aici,
Ag imeacht ó thuama go tuama
Le dán guagach Jahan Ara.
Dusta is ceo i gcónaí
Faic idir feoil is cloch i gcónaí.
Gabhann ga gréine
Trí phit an choilm sin
Ina codladh ar áirsí thiar an Daingin Dheirg
Is tollann mo shúil.
Fós ina mhaidneachan.
Cúplálann taibhrimh leis an réaltacht
Cén dreach a bheidh ar ghnúis na maidine?
Delhi
Over the fort like a broken loaf
sunshine sharp like radishes.
Grass and stones nestling in the ruins
of Tughlaqabad.
Shadows within arches: arches shadowed: Khirki Masjid.
Steps in rows fleeting through the eyes like a needle at Jama Masjid.
The Qutb erect, stretching from root to throat.
Smells all around,
of food, flesh, blood, prisons and palaces,
yesterday’s, centuries’.
Breath caught and fixed to this moment,
the eye alive, wheeling through the past
enters the cracks in Ghalib’s tomb,
seeking Khankhanan’s fossilsed bones,
wanders from tomb to tomb
with the restless fate of Jahan Ara.
Still, dust and mist
still, nothing separates flesh and stone.
A sunbeam
slipping through the vagina of a dove
asleep upon the western arches of the Red Fort pierces my eye.
Still, dawn.
Dreams mate with reality
what will be the face of morning?
