(I)

Rustom wanted to fight the devil and

pull his might into a dagger;

that would stagger to find the vanity

in a prudent heart.

The giant ephemeral in his bronze, like a dish overcooked with zest

and color: he the son of a mercury, blind!

Descended from the sky and screeched the corner-

a cat defiant and afraid. He drew the dagger and plunged.

Then in a moment:

"Sohrab, sohrab!" He cried a solace, to find that

voice was not a remedy, just an echo

of a fault that was pregnable

in the giant

with a human soul.



(II)

Earlier, wept the caliph.

The desert winds would take so far an adieu

retention from which was water, nonetheless.

A woman his path,

Abbas did not know. Astride the barren

he looked, for a drop

to console poor Ali Asghar from his life.

The kid, a prophet would beget,

cried and cried- a small hand drummed his chest.

And there Abbas, to fall, an arrow entrusted in his lungs.

On water to take the sip

that was never meant to be.