Marcel’s Attic

Had I been born in Samarkand I would have moved to Bukkhara

or had I been more adventurous of spirit perhaps Mazar

e Shariff or even Sanadaj to enter into Sama

how did I end up in this eternal sea

of plastic and electric lights;

I’d rather be a hawk or ferile pig

or a desert cat hiding in the sand dunes

for the moon to rise into the night and embrace

all gentle minds who regail us wrapt and spell bound

with their ancient poetry of love and all the greater virtues

of mankind but then again I’d trade it for a mustang running wild

in the high steppes near Karakoram; tell me how did I end up in suburb

burp  as Marcel used to say when we hid from the world in her attic so long ago

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