To Pasargadae (Between Two Thrones and Heaven)

Is this the way?

Empires have bloomed
and withered here;
dolphin-shaped hands
diving into
wet fires silk-route
their dry way through
crowds of echoes
highways bellow
in their coursing
vein-like to you.

Licentious, your
poet expires;
airbrushing thoughts
from wandering
hearts he wore, his
perishing part
scrubbed from what play
destiny penned
yet circumstance
delayed, I end.

Cherish, old friend,
what whispered word
trails, vapour sworn
before heaven’s
court I performed;
cars motorcade
over my name,
rushing toward
your fleeting fame.

untamed, you run;
how, darling one,
came you to know
dust with open
fist onto us
would throw ashes
torn from the tomb
we washed with tears,
called our bedroom?

I am buried,
your aching king;
follow garden
walls to wailing
calls and answer—
drink of the south:
standing, casting
a shower of
shadow asking,

Is this the way?