On chipped merlons and furbished bastions
sun stoops like a darban out of habit
hinging on a creaking arm of history
the getaway smells of broken bricks
in cold vestibule a chandelier swings
with stories of hangings
the Persian panegyrics echo
through the porous ceilings
in crowned pavilions winds spill
tales from friezes and goblets.

The twilight sits like a dozing sentinel
guards filigreed curtains of harems
where flabby courtesans stretch
their aging bodies eunuchs giggle after girls
running errands in hennaed palms
their anklets resound on marbled floors
and hearts of the spent queen
stowed in palanquins and divans

the candles lit their faces but the fort lowers
in darkness like a maqta in ghazal.