POETRY

Sought to trace

White Russian Princess’

Footsteps,

In taxi-stand on Rue d’ Bac where

White-guard general stood to salute her smile.

In tunnels of the Metro-underground

I fell behind the fast-paced

Steps,

Mesmerized by the akordeon player’s

Moroccan songs - empty, my heart

Was for the tunes of these songs.

In Louvre Japanese commercial crowwwwwwwwwwwwwd

Blocked my flirtatious eyesight with Mona Lisa,

But D’ Orsay made up,

Cezzane, Renoir, Monet and Degas –

What a 5th floor on this house,

Did I forget to mention Van Gogh’s, whose

Brilliance is never uptight?

In Marias I looked for communist Picasso,

Did not know Pablo’s house was in this

Bourgeois ghetto ,

His romantic ideals withered with time,

But his genius art forever immortal

I asked Sorbonne, isn’t your house

But one?

Then, why one becomes beastly like Chuan Lai

Or Pol-Pot – genocide killing fields’ generals -

And one becomes a liberal like Dr. Bakhtiar

Whose throat is soaked with blood in your house?

What color is your true identity

Or hospitality,

Tehran-bound- Cleric and his entourage,

Making my home a dark-ages museum;

Or your harmonica claiming to

Harmonizing Palestinian and Jew?

In St. Germain, in St. Michelle or by

Opera,

I watched north-African boys seducing

Local gals,

The half-Algerian- `n-half-French

Blue-eyed, dark velvet-skin read my palm

Saying, “There is a princess in your house.”

I asked for another Bordeaux

Saying, “City-of-Lights is not for

Liars but lovers,

But this soul is just too old.”

Yet, claiming to be a Qajar descendant

Blood, she kept on coming on.

Who was I to say no to the princess

Under the decorative lighting pole,

The Eiffel was glittering with lights,

Champs Elysees was wide and soaked

With pouring from above,

And, I was as Monarchist as the night.