A Game in Black and White

The Shah is dead:

I look at my opponent,

his hands folded in his lap.

His pieces of Spanish Marquina

catch the light from an oil lamp.

My Parian troops

are serried beside the field.

'We learn lessons in defeat',

says he who has never held

its bitter juice on his tongue.

We go to lie.

He is still Shahryar;

his wish is my command.

My tales of Basrah sailors

stay the blade of an angry man.

We lie on furs.

I on the rarest ermine,

he on sable of deepest black.

My whispers of afrits and fishermen

raise the corners of his cruel lips.

And afterwards,

I look at my opponent,

his face softened by his sleep.

His cheekbones of Persian forebears

speed the beating of a foolish heart.