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Here is the infamous [city] gate,
the one of the olive branch and the sword,
for those who leave, it is so closed
and for those who enter, so open.
If in you peace is exiled
you cannot offer that…
Oh, Father of great mercy
In sunset’s flame there fades
My cradle land
That was once nearer to me than my salt-crusted shirt
Where with my brother Russian
I shared more than once
A measly bite of…
Wind bells over the river with an
Indian name: transplanted homelessness
disguised as a transplanted home.
The garden jingles. Odorous sandalwood censers,
kimonos and saris flashing well among
the…