Hashtnagar (Eight Cities) Xlvi Poem by Sadiqullah Khan

Aye, eight cities in a street, the name comes
From the story-tellers' tongue, home to Bodhisattvas,
On ruins they still sit, bake bread, and serve, Kulfa -
Pehsawari, of cool milky taste. These must have been
The commoners and the nobles' houses, Haveliies,
Wooded, grand, austere. Preserve and you have culture,
Destroy, and you raise tasteless mortar and concrete.

Inside a door, there was damp woody smell of tea, Kahwah
Green, melting mud down the walls, glazed with sights
Of two thousand years. Gutted, deep, soft, smelling
Like, this part of earth, like having born for centuries.
Urbane, voluptuous, fast, and I was in the city of colors
Drowning in a range of smells, noises, dream like, and
Spiced, in brass utensils, tapetted to perfection,

Silver, gold, rubies, red stones, and roses, in Gajras,
Drinks, red carpets, small rooms, and the gathering night,
Velvets, wools and silks. Bright eyes sleepy, red lips
Ivory hands, -laments of rebeck and fingers breaking
On Tabla. Make the whole universe revolve and revolve.
The morning prayer, the king's little fort there. As we
Passed through goldsmiths' street to Mahabat Khan Mosque.

-On a visit to Hashtnagri in Peshawar on September 20,2014.

Sadiqullah Kahn
Peshawar
September 20,2014.