Kashmir was damp
With the damp of dreams
Autumn's funeral
With a coffin of leaves
I asked Grandma,
"Is God a Muslim?"
No one taught me the Koran
My father mouthed Freud and Marx
Something about recognizing necessity
Mother had long since discarded the veil
Grandma read me the tale of Job
"The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away
Then God came:
A poor eyesight, a silver beard,
Ninety years old
My Grandfather
I worshiped him
Proud and gentle
But he crumpled
Like a maple leaf
Dust unto dust is his will.
Then our servant lost his shoes at the mosque
I had nothing left to ask.
My voice cracked on Ghalib
As dreams of God crumbled for me
Our servant, his shoes stolen at the mosque,
Turned deaf to the muezzin's call
The calligraphed dome gave way to the sky
Autumn caved into me with its script of flames
And ignited my dry garbage of God
I varnished my face with the sun,
My tongue forgot the texture of prayer.
--Agha Shahid Ali
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