I.
The Khan came late
tonight, said the oracle.
He held court in a palace
paved with river stones
beneath a golden sky
traced in silent songbirds.
A bard from Venice stood
and sang—of cities like
women with chrysanthemum hair
—with the bubbling clarity
of a mountain spring's
music, risen in the froth.
II.
The Khan comes late
tonight, says the oracle.
His court moves to
the mountain rising second
closest to the sky,
full with spring warblers.
In the songs of the bard
are rivers as streets
and bridges arcing over
figures spinning by
oil-light, wreathed in gold,
curves twining around him.
III.
On the highest mountain
beyond the Khan's lands,
songbirds will sing to
a spring river falling
through the forest's hair.
In the cities of the bard,
the women will dance
on river-smooth cobblestone.
In the courts of the Khan,
dreams move with his desire.
Ask the oracle: when
will he come tomorrow?