God did not spend His strongest light On a sun above or a look of love, But on a round gold ring, from you to me.

Touch my cheeks with your fingers, blue hyacinth. Did God use a whiter silk Weaving the veil for your fevered roses, Or spinning the moon that lies across your face?

Treasure the touches of my fingers. God did not waste His whitest web On veils of silk or moons of milk, But on a marriage cap, from you to me.

_Popular Song of Baluchistan._

_BURMA_

A CANKER IN THE HEART

I made a bitter song When I was a boy, About a girl With hot earth-coloured hair, Who lived with me And left me.

I made a sour song On her marriage-day, That ever his kisses Would be ghosts of mine, And ever the measure Of his halting love Flow to my music.

It was a silly song, Dear wife with cool black hair, And yet when I recall (At night with you asleep) That once you gave yourself Before we met, I do not quite well know What song to make.

_From the Burmese (nineteenth century) (? by Asmapur)._

_CAMBODIA_

DISQUIET

Brother, my thought of you In this letter on a palm-leaf Goes up about you As her own scent Goes up about the rose.

The bracelets on my arms Have grown too large Because you went away.

I think the sun of love Melted the snow of parting, For the white river of tears has overflowed.

But though I am sad I am still beautiful, The girl that you desired In April.

Brother, my love for you In this letter on a palm-leaf Brightens about you As her own rays Brighten about the moon.

_Love Poem of Cambodia._

_CAUCASUS_

VENGEANCE

Aischa was mine, My tender cousin, My blond lover; And you knew our love, Uncle without bowels, Foul old man.

For a few weights of gold You sold her to the blacks, And they will drive a stinking trade At the dark market; Your slender daughter, The free child of our hills.

She will go to serve the bed Of a fat man with no God, A guts that cannot walk, A belly hiding his own feet, A rolling paunch Between itself and love.

She was slim and quick Like the antelope of our hills When he comes down in the summer-time To bathe in the pools of Tereck, Her stainless flesh Was all moonlight.

Her long silk hair Was of so fine a gold And of so honey-like a brown That bees flew there, And her red lips Were flowers in sunlight.

She was fair, alas, she was fair, So that her beauty goes To a garden of dying flowers, Made one with the girls that mourn And wither for light and love Behind the harem bars.

And you have dirty dreams That she will be Sultane, And you will drink and boast And roll about, The grinning ancestor Of little kings.

Hugging your very wicked gold Within a greasy belt, You paddle exulting like a bald ape That glories to defile, Unmindful of two hot young streams Of tears.

You stole this dirty gold, For this gold means Your daughter's freedom And your nephew's love, Two fresh and lovely things Groaning within your belt.

The sunny playing of our childhood At the green foot of Elbours, The starry playing of our youth Beyond the flowery fences, These sigh their lost delights Within your belt.

Give me the gold; Damn you, give me the gold.... You kill my mercy When you kill my love.... Hold up your trembling sword; For this is death.

* * * * *

I take the belt from the dead loins That put away my love, And turn my sweet white horse After the caravan.... With dirty gold and clean steel I'll set Aischa free.

_Ballad of the Caucasus._

THE FLIGHT

Softly into the saddle Of my black horse with white feet; Your brothers are frowning And grasping swords in sleep. My rifle is as clean as moonlight, My flints are new; My long grey sword is sighing In his blue sheath. Fatima gave me my grey sword Of Temrouk steel, Damascened in red gold