As we were being ushered out of the Alhambra,
In deepening twilight,
I couldn’t help wondering if the splendours of the past
Had been passed down the generations of different
Species of birds, as they started singing
About the many princesses sighing about
Their handsome loves lost in senseless battles.
Who knew whose ghost could be watching us
From every mournful window
Or listening door, silenced by passing centuries.
Of course, there were plenty of ill-mannered tourists
To keep the ghosts shivering with horror.
* * *
Outside the Fatehpur Sikri complex,
Bulund Darwaza, a high victory gate,
Dwarfed everyone in the echoing, breezy courtyard.
Faraway candles flickering in the white mazar
of Akbar’s advisor, Salim Chisti, a Sufi saint,
cast shadows of playful phantoms in the dim lights.
But with approaching twilight, as the masses began to dissipate,
The phantoms were happy enough to take over,
Adding their unheard buzz to the general hush
Of the wind-swept plateau,
Filtered by jakhis, trellised screens
Cut out from stone and marble.
Windows into our collective past or haunted future?
