Under the Glare of the Hindu Kush Mountians

Here, grains of opium bartered for terror
on the scale of visible apocalypse,
and working guns, Soviet made or Polish refurbished,
for the price of two aggressive hours of love.
Single rooms in Muhammad hotel or Ali
come equipped with working ceiling fans,
which circle blindly
like doomed helicopters,
collapsing to earth.
In search of gangs of bee-killers?
Wanting to make a mockery of crucifixion?
Stand in line, sip the cinnamon tea,
wait out the serenaded general
with claims of heritage
in three overlapping continents.
The geographical center of the earth
is a voracious vacuum where benign souls
come to eat themselves alive.
Once evening creeps up,
throwing its dark blanket
on these slit-eyed streets,
watch how the dealers and mercenaries
draw like magnets
to the blaze of sorrow
that follows the devil's gaze.

copyright 2006 Anis Shivani
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