Maybe some day, in the towers I found,
you and I can look around,
you replete with the vanity of India,
white silk in a film shown near Russia,
the high pitched whine of feminine singing
which should soften the west if it didn’t laugh.
I don’t know if my towers will last
or if my poetry is blasphemy.
It is all I can do to keep my poems chaste,
to prepare them in the sun with tamarind paste
and the dyes that greet the future in Nepal.
I can descend with you into the hills laughing,
the film beautiful, but slow and provincial
so that the West demanded its money back.
Do you know the sufferings of the girl Gupta
and the star which fell on her on Tuesday last?
How can the earth be best crushed so perfumes kill
the worshiper, if not his will?
The queen divided but steady,
certain of everything but the past.