Tamerlane's Doors

In azure steppe
Young moon sails,
White hoof-length mane,
And gilded bridle.

Silver chime
Of Mongolian stirrups -
Born in winds,
Spiced in downpours.
Over the edge of jug
Milk pours into the sky;
Sleep, my darling, fall asleep,
Tomorrow you ride far.

You sought for the dawn -
And left with no wound,
Wasn't I kissed
Only by you?
By Tamerlane's door
The grass has grown;
Am I not your arrow,
Am I not your bowstring?

You are fire's heart,
You are banners' song,
You will leave me,
Enchanted by steppes,
By yurts of moons -
Into the fog of road,
Heavenly herd,
Heavy quiver;

Stranger's arrow,
The moon - split in half,
Wormwood and ash -
Are your lot, Tamerlane.
You're to ruffle spear grass
On alien shores,
To become icy gold
In a high mound.

And I'm to embroider
Olive linen,
To drop the tears
Of silver chime;
Eternally true
To fire ring-
Not a sister,
Nor a wife to you.