The inglorious inexactitudes
of the incomprehensibly inexpressible,
as foreseen by the blind fortune teller
that summer night so long ago
it’s as if it never existed.
When the lovely Andrea lifted the seventh
of her seven veils and all was revealed.
The same night Akbar flew his carpet
over the domes and turrets of a desert city
whose name somehow escapes me, my memory
a sunset the likes of which I can only imagine.