HA’SHUK. (THE MARKET).

Let me sell you this
Shattered glass from a lantern that
Belonged to an old sheikh,
Who smashed it in a fury when
His clan fell to the Seljuks
Not your taste? Look, then,
This is the broken blade of the very Turk
Who slew the sheikh’s son then destroyed
His sword vowing never to kill again.
Something less morbid?
You drive a hard bargain.
What have you brought to trade?
Your soul? Please,
The market is flooded with those,
You can’t be hoping for more than
Table scraps with that.
Let me see your hands—not bad,
They might fetch a tapestry fragment apiece,
Or double for the scarred one—
But did I show you my shredded weavings?
Got them off a man of Samarkand
For the toe of a Khazar’s boot; a servant-type,
Clearly didn’t know the value of a palace’s rags.
You like? Well then,
Maybe I’d take your eyes for this tassel,
Their color is odd enough, so long as
I could have both. What’s that?
Your heart? Ah, that’d do nicely,
Almost perfectly crushed, though
Let me grind it just slightly more,
For here they love not the whole
But only bits and pieces