Bijapur

This is my room,
Here, where the grass grows thickest
Beneath these broken arches,
High, my unfinished dream

My father built many houses
None more magnificient
Than that one to the East
Where he lies, that arrogant bastard

I asked him once who deserved more
The healer or the healed
My father only laughed and left me
Sixteen years of misery

Across the street
Where the ruins touch the sky
My son was in silver chains
Dragged to shameful submission

This is my grave
Perfect gardens, ancient trees,
An illusion carefully restored