Swing around the lion of
Queue for almond croissants in the sun
Wait for a table in the bistrot des Pingouins
And slip into that old vie Parisienne
Keeping a key to that art deco marvel
Saying hi to Sam Becket in the cimitière
Laughing with the commerçants in the rue du marché
Bonnes adresses in the quartier Daguerre
Vernissages and Sunday flea markets
Meeting friends on the pont des Arts
Picnic parks and pinpoint parking
That key a talisman to my
Dust pounded to finer dust, our homes and families gone,
Our history re-written, who knows us now?
Even our city has been renamed so often its lineage is lost.
A town in a war-torn country, itself known only for its terrorists
Its hated Taliban and its opium farms
In the ruins you may find the clues, these fragments may yet say,
Once we were proud Bactrians, a merchant capital on the
Greek and Egyptian statuary. Here, Alexander took Roxanne,
Our daughter, as his wife, and
On the wind you may yet hear our songs,
Cradle of magi, poets and sages, birthplace of Zoroaster,
Of Jelaleddin Rumi, poet of the whirling dervishes.
Young women still murmur to Rabia Balkhi, killed by her family
For loving a slave, a final poem left in her own blood.
Travellers spoke of our wonders once. Dear old Xuanzang,
Who carried Buddhism home to
Noted the hundred temples on his visit, the radiant holy relics,
But criticised the laxity of our thousand monks.
Marco Polo called us a splendid city, (though now much reduced in size).
Even so, the city sacked by Genghis Khan was an Islamic cosmopolis,
Still rich in Buddhist shrines and Zoroastran fire temples.
He razed our homes and put our families to the sword (again).
The city survived, a Moghul, then an Uzbek town,
But the glory faded and the old town was a maze of azure-painted ruins.
So even now, you hear of us and do not know whereof you speak.
Our Bactrian camels crossed the world (and that includes the wet bits).
The Ghan railway in
To honour the sweat of Afghan camel herders who made it possible,
Opening up some never imagined extension of the
Yet still your bombs crash down upon the ruins of our history.
Where once we were known as the mother of all cities.
We dare not walk these paths, for Russian and Western mines still lie
Among 3000 years of grace, all broken now,
Fragments pounded from dust to finer dust, our heritage erased.
by Lynne M. Collis ©2007 All Rights Reserved
Permission to quote was requested from Colin Thubron and his publishers, stating that he would be credited as follows: "with thanks to Colin Thubron for inspiration and quotes from "Shadow of the
A week of glorious colour
I am not here 
farmhouse wall,
