The local gods are sleeping. Beneath walls and towers impervious to change (overrun by vines), the deepest calls to human hearts and minds murmur from wells and fountains. Strange the mirrors, gardens, the bricks and silent halls must appear after centuries of ruin attempted. Sandstone stairs eroded and slumped by myriad feet persevere, the steps alone have been corroded. Underneath the moon the sultan’s mere of circled lions gives a hint, a clue to the sound, the delicate echo of peaceful liquid snores. The sound of true the lions tell you. Roars, only outward. Immovable stone, imported. Gift of pride, given to a rival tribe, in humility. Twelve lords who stoop forever holding up a basin, the central fountain circumscribed by liquid silver, cursive enough to read, whose carven words, dividing, describe. They neither war nor rule. Their reason to be is simple: allow water to course down spidery channels reaching away, fingers grasping at spans. Sometimes they succeed, by force or luck. Sometimes not, the fountains run dry. So they have stood for aeons, surrounded by porches, colonnades, breezeways, bowers of pomegranate. Rarely understood. Central to palace, spire, tower, but always isolate, outside. In solitude. Perhaps the waters are sustained. Perhaps the waters sustain on their own. Perhaps those things with circumstance implying lion’s strength are useless, fragile, dumb as stone. Perhaps the waters need no help. Perhaps. |
|