Iram of the Myriad of Pillars

Everlasting City of the Myriad of Pillars

sends out caravans through time

to trade with itself

trinkets by trinkets by trinkets

change hands

wearing away

into sand.

His Royal Grace, Prince Haruspex Al Fard At Tair

ordained in the Secrets of Life and Death,

is bored in the sun parlor

where merchants

show wonders

from faraway times.

He gets up,

softly applauds

to a mechanical nightingale,

bows in a refined manner

to a mechanical woman,

stops for a moment

to stare at the collection of alien gods

in big green bottles,

nods in approval to jugglers,

walks away.

second

His lab is cold and half-lit.

A dissected frog

is fixed on the specimen stage,

dead for—

His Grace counts the days—

yes, for a week and a half.

Not rotten, still—

nothing rots in Iram,

though all forms

of corruption and putrescence

are customary here—

but dead for sure.

The Prince cautiously disengages the clasps,

releasing the frog,

carefully puts

the dissected amphibian

on the palm of his hand.

Looks at it indifferently.

Pulls himself together.

Looks at it with love,

slight sorrow,

and a touch of passion.

His lips, red as an open wound,

glow eerily

as he kisses

the butchered critter’s mouth.

The dead frog answers

the Prince’s electrifying kiss

with a twitch of his left hind leg.

His Grace contentedly smiles:

matters of life and death

are still in check.

third

Have you not considered how your Lord dealt with ‘Aad, Iram—who had lofty pillars?

—Quran, 89

The Everlasting City

falls once more,

turns into sand,

into fine dust

and further on—

into atoms,

into a primordial

medley

of quarks,

into shamelessly naked

singularity,

something that shouldn’t be

and generally fails

to exist for a moment.

Indeed, your Lord is in observation.

For a moment, His Royal Grace

closes his stung eyes,

and in a momentary glint of sleep

Prince Haruspex is dragged through

Fiery Hell then

Frozen Hell, and

back into the Mundane Hell

of everyday routine

known to each person incoronate.

Iram indeed is gone with all its Roses.

Into the pits of Gehenna.

—Pardon me, Your Grace?

—Oh? It’s nothing. Just ...

Sand

—... What was that you were just saying?

His Royal Grace holds court,

bestows a blessing on his subjects,

has his picture taken

for the front page of The Iram Chronicle,

kisses a child—

a stillborn one—

and the child bursts into tears.

forth [sic]

And thus it ends.

The everlasting city of Iram

decays into sand,

where it belongs.

The side street of Sighs,

devoid of people usually,

gets a dozen or so

by-passers.

Caravans

carrying nothing but

sand

depart

one last time.

The Herald of Fate—

a half-meter-tall lizard

with an hourglass and an oil lantern

in a worn-out robe—

declares the end.

“Cursed be eower water,

and eower chimney,

and eower very salt.”

“Some truths art to stay untold,

Doors to stay unopened,

Seals to be left sealed,

And unsettling places

Never to be settled.”

That’s where I come in.

Grim reaper,

a gaping hole in the very fabric

of   being, a void.

With grinning teeth,

as always

I take pride

in something I can’t undo.

I unsheathe my sword—

its edge is sharpened into nothingness—

I unsheathe it and

bow before the royalty

whom I’d wish to spare

were it not so severe.

“Wait a bit,” says His Royal Grace,

“I’m not quite ready.”

I slowly nod and wait—an aeon or so,

till Prince Haruspex, eyes wide open,

walks toward me,

meets the point of my sword

with agonizing gasp,

keeps walking,

catches my head in his ermine palms,

finds my mouth,

gives me a kiss,

whispers:

“At the least

I gave it a shot.”

Smiles.

Dies.

What happens then,

I remember well.

Clasp of my palm on the grip

of my sword, unclenched.

Knees bent.

Bumped

against the blood-soaked sand.

Myself curled up

with blood-soaked mouth,

making barking sounds.

Sand, wet from my eyeballs,

soaked.

Grief, grieved.

Sorrow, sorrowed.

Things to be done, done.

Things to be silenced, silenced.

Things to be mourned, mourned.

Things to be sand,

sand.