Persian Idylls

The breath of Ney floats down the valley
wafled on the thymeladen air of the foothills.
It hovers over the village.
Brushing lightly the cheek of my beloved
it mates with the scent of her hair
until I know not of what I am conscious:
or music or perfume.

It murmurs on its way to the brook beyond the house
The echo of its last note lingers 
to meet the ripple that veils our kisses
Oh, shepherd of the hills, play on
for the song of life eternally renewed is in the breath of Ney.

Nightfall found us still seated on the terrace. 
Long  had we not spoken, 
nor had I tended the  kalyan that stood between us, 
for my thoughts  had wandered into the kingdom of my desire. 

"Thinkest thou thy heart is dead because  it mourns a lover? 
See. The kalyan glows no longer. 
Its  coverlet of pearl grey ash is like unto a shroud. 
And yet... 
Put but forth thy hand and its heart will whisper of its warmth. 
Now I have breathed upon the kalyan, 
and a crimson fire gleams upon thy cheek. 
So thy heart lurks shrouded in the ashes of  the love that passed. 
Speak. Shalline be the breath to rekindle  its glow?" 
And at moonrise her drooping head had found 
its  pillow upon my breast.