Turkmenistan

In a drop of water
All the suns of the universe
Burn;
Barchans of the Kara Kum,
Flat clay desert and gnarled saxaul trees...
The sun makes Zoroastrians
Of us all.

If the stone rotates
On the pilgrim’s fingers
No sin has been committed.
From the conical oven
A round loaf is born,
A new sun.

Purge the air with burning yuzaerlik,
Over a girl’s breast
Hangs the triangular silver tumar,
Charged with Koranic text.

Weave the seasons into your carpet,
Weave the elements and lay it out
For anyone to sit upon,
Human on the earth.

At the Ak Ishan shrine
Pilgrims peer into the well
For a glimpse of the moon,
Their wishes’ grail.

Like a goldencoated Ahal Tekke,
Lean, longlimbed and indefatigable,
The heart crosses great distances
And does not give up.