Baghdad

This city was not a matter for men, But its river was, as were those who therein dwelt Much to the surprise of its waters.

If cobalt were the purest of colors, The Tigris would be not the river of purity, But the form of purity racing to the sea, There where it dissolves among Shipwrecks and algae, And the great bull whales That swim southward should the world of man End there, There where dawn, no longer part of the night, Is born.

The emperor thus knows That in his birth there was a river, A dream of sweet waters From which issues, since his youth, Deep and bitter, the form of his life. And another form, the way of Being here: barely a memory, And fire and water.

This city was not a matter for men, But its river was. Those who therein dwelt know That neither cities nor men Are matters of much import to rivers.