A HOT SUNDAY IN DAULATABAD
 

the hot sun here, menacing
a ruined fortress, and
you squat there on
an island, your feet
daring the onslaught
of rushing waves.

deserted, this ancient capital
has no king. i've changed capital
like a mad king
to come here for safety.
a peeling victory tower
celebrates my arrival—
i'm left alone
to decide the wisdom
of my move.

in the darkness of the fortress, defence is easy;
the methods of old
haven't been of use anyway.
the gods of the fortress
have been ransacked by
an invasion of tourists.
beyond the moat a dozen
houses keep the thought
of civilization alive
what i've left behind
has already been prized,
and the hostile sun
has burnt my throat dry.

in the silence of the dead,
thoughts hum loud like words
to ask a little gravely;
"what have i come for,
here......this far?"