There are spirits rustling on the silk road.
Restless heart-beats ghosting down its length
from Uzbekistan through ageless lands,
climbing the rock-strewn heights with velvet stealth.
From Aschabad to Samarkand ages
spin stories, whispered tales of greed and calumny.
Brocades fold ancient ways in bales of silken beauty,
they skim the silk road, rippling down the tapestry of time,
bolts of villainy haunting the stillness of the night.
At dawn the camel trains of Tamurlane stir again,
enfolded in the brilliance of the day;
their silken shawls, tasseled with tales
beyond the luxury of time.