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A Poem from the Book:
"Through the Window of Taj Mahal"


Mahmud Kianush



Copyright shall at all times remain vested in the Author. No part of the work shall be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the Author's express written consent.


The Earth,

My place of exile,

Is bounded on the north by Motion,

On the south by Blood,

On the east by Passion,

And on the west by Repetition.


Its flag Rainbow,

Its coin the Sun,

Its religion Beingness,

Its government Change,

Its industrial products Ashes,

And its spokesman Love.


Its greatest musician the Wind,

Its greatest artist the Spring,

Its greatest poet the Night,

Its greatest philosopher Water,

And its greatest champion Earthquake.


To remain hungry at its generous table

Is a rewardless suffering,

And to eat with greed

Is a sin without punishment.


In its fields

From the ashes of the killed and the killers

Grow grains with the same taste,

And Chastity and Debauchery

Take their ablution under its rains

In the naked body of one blossom.


Oh Thought,

In this exile

Do not complain about the Beginning.



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