Walking in Jaipur

the sun rolled down the Aravalli hills,
kneeling for a moment on the desert floor,
as if in quiet prayer,
slipping quickly now,
into the sands of the afterday,
fingers cold, digging deeper,
finding mine
over the bones of ancient whispers;

the mirrors sewn into her veil
birthing a sky of dancing moons,
a princess despaired,
will it matter in a hundred years, two hundred,
the queen smiled,
as caparisoned elephants marched away,
her voice wet with the blood of a million battles,
to you, my dear, she said,
to you, it always will;

in the bitter cold of Jaipur’s streets,
where the high windows still lower their gaze,
we walk past pink city walls, stained with shivering night,
the quenched sun leading me,
fingers locked in mine,
sand silver in our hair like tears,
the stained glass
still warm from our lost breath.