- who takes pity on the foreigner at the bazaar?
- he has lost his wife.
- hours ago she disappeared behind a curtain of pale green glass beads,
- through a dark hole cut like a doorway.
- the perfumes that enticed her are too rare yet for his nostrils to know.
- he paces outside, distraught.
- men in turbans shake their heads
- and resume their ancient games of chance.
- there are gravediggers who make their fortunes
- off the coins on the eyes of strangers,
- but these men simply bar the door,
- sit with the knowledge of where and why
- and when it is time to cross over thresholds,
- say it is written in the stars,
- say we hold this fate pressed in our palms,
- which are the maps of stars, forged when the die is cast.
- fate makes no difference to this man
- who only wants his wife to return from that dark hollow.
- night falls and she does not return.
- she will not return.
- she is not on an errand of indulgence and whim.
- the glass beads let out sighs
- and rattle like bones in the wind.
- the turbaned men reach out for alms.
- pity us, won’t you,
- all foreigners at the bazaar.