Lahore: Garden of the Mughals

She was my first love,

Remnant of a bygone era,

Concubine to the king.

 

They sewed her lips closed,

Staining the tomb,

Of the poet that lay deep within her bowels.

 

She roared with a fiery intensity,

The blue-eyed daughter,

Of an emperor that played the flute,

To her siren call.

 

And then we wrote her name,

With the courtesans’ blood,

The word taking new forms,

With every priests pronunciation.

 

That was the day,

The poets’ darling,

The emperors’ daughter,

The harem girl,

Slaughtered her final hostage,

And became,

Lahore.

 

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