In fact the king does exist, but in spirit only – for none and all to see. It goes on, whether one plays or not – and the chessboard is not hard to make. It is through the mother that we are, some say reborn, obvious enough, but it takes spirals and revolutions, ecstatic violence and drunken orgies, in the name of sobriety, to remind us that the king is in fact a ghost, as Khayyam who fixed our calendar knew, but the game goes on, and whether we play or not… to be as to act noble.
She calls on Marcellus’ lines, “thou art scholar, speak to it, Horatio, speak to it,” to begin her lectures on literature and philosophy every Thursday.
Well: the game is at an end, a wind goes in and out, and we try and go on because it’s Nowruz!
To be it? Shall, baad? To be the river, the wind? To go? Invisible but moving?
Or to stand still and
That is not the question, I know.
Some burned in fires, some hid behind their mothers, some arcades are no more, and that was only last year. Some songs are kin to ghostly and some a little off, sickly, half-dead, but then and then, at and to the origin of the orient twisted and tied, ecstatic and disoriented, and with an impressing promise of equilibrium on the first day of spring – at least that’s what the pire maghaan guyad:
On whatever square you sit,
Or even if you think you are in control,
Eide saide Baastaani,
Or the birth of mehr, springs and fountains,
Be hamegi mobarak,
Har ruzetan nowruz
* '); } // End –> *