As if bodies were the soul's ornaments, A mullah turned the Koran's carpet page. Old Babur made a couplet instead - of Age and Youth, his 'throneless days,' their violence. The opium pearl, to ease him out of life, Made a garden of pain. The rugs, the tent Dissolved. A flower still appeared. He went On rearranging the couplet and devised, To keep death at bay, five hundred and four Versions. His first poem had been to a boy From the bazaar whom for a day he had adored, Whose glances he could still see in the dark That lined the geometric border's void, Reproduced in glistening egg-and-dart. .. Each grain of sand Takes an eternity to articulate History's figure of speech for randomness. J.D. McClatchy The Rest of the Way Kilim [fragments] op. cit.
Already from the wings, on the other hand, the snare-drum roll of excuses caught his signature riff of Executive incapacity, as he moued of going, fan in hand, to his sadistic Congress, begging a humane release from his predecessor's use of war powers. As the curtain closed upon his presentation, it was as if the tease of déjà vu had run its natural course, and our right wing carny matrons, from Gerson to Krauthammer, hardly needed then to spank us back to shame. The President conceded long ago, accepting the authoritarian illusion of being kept safe as a human right, which it is not. It is a policy - and not inherently a cruel one, but for its vain and tragic dread of life.