[Alex Pepple]

The Pigeons

                  —At Jama Masjid


Fluttering loose on Delhi’s amber stone,
The courtyard’s pigeons weave their daily wiles,
Like Garuda’s brood claiming heaven’s throne—
The girl in crimson cotton spawns their trials.

Through carmine arches shaped by craftsmen’s dreams,
Her spirit soars beyond minaret prayers,
Where Jatayu’s once grieved in sunlit streams,
And in dawn’s air pigeons swirl its saffron layers.

In murmuration’s squall of silver wings,
Her visions too rise over hoary plains,
Beyond domes where the morning ghazal sings,
Through cardamom clouds and jasmine-scented rains.

Like Krishna’s mount, these birds swarm paradise;
Each feather dipped in heritage and grace,
As evening’s azan threads through misted spice,
Through honeyed courtyard where old faiths embrace.

In this red realm where emperors once trod
On paths inlaid with stories carved in stone,
Her nimbus is incense aloft to God,
As earth and sky in rhymed wingbeat atone.

Beyond all veils where seekers dare to soar,
Past jaali-latticed shadows touched with light,
Discerning what saints have known in their core:
The souls that crest free surge past mortal sight.

Penultimate line was: She learns what saints have always known before: