Bukhara

Bukhara, repair that bedimmed smile
Which once danced and revelled on your face,
Here I am, your grandson. My skin redolent of the heat
And sand of the deserts I traversed,
Traits of ancient mystery still crawling
Fearlessly on my boyish lashes and irides.
I've come to contemplate your countenance
To weep, to frolic, to caress the silk on your wrinkled body,
Blessed and enshrouded by the moonlight,
As they always loved to do; and to leave
As they always had to do.

I left my heart in your meandering, dusty alleys
For you to keep, for you to remember.
Your grandson has come back, finally, with a music
Different from what you would have endowed
Vibrating in his larynx.

Would you always remember me, Bukhara?
Would you always, like an indulgent grandmother,
Embrace me with open arms, look at me with loving eyes,
And welcome me with the ancient words on ancient tongues
Which I have shamelessly forgotten?
Would you wipe off my tears, and tell me,
'This is home'?