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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