Nightingale, sing: interpret, speak, chant, kneel,
I dub thee Sir Rosencrantz Ramallah,
A profile fraught with the essence of myrrh,
No Fayoum encaustic, this burnished cheek's
Been drying mad Ophelia's kerchief,
And leaving great Catherine in the lurch,
Her heaving thighs in furs, on ice, alack--
Sanguine vigilante of truth, a Con-
Science raveled in revolution's sidekicks,
A tzaddik soul misplaced in drifting sands,
The gates of Isfahan await thy verse,
Borne on pixels en route to Samarkand,
Where is the golden-tongue, O where thy mirth?
For a rose seeking Attar to refine?