Moondance

Well, its a marvelous night for a moondance
With the stars up above in your eyes
A fantabulous night to make romance
beneath the cover of october skies
And all the leaves on the trees are falling
To the sound of the breezes that blow
And I'm trying to please to the calling
Of your heart-strings that play soft and low
And all the night's magic seems to whisper and hush
And all the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush.

---van Morrison

Ay, it is sweet! Half hidden,--half revealed-- You see the dark folds of my shrouding cloak, And I, the glimmering whiteness of your dress: I but a shadow--you a radiance fair! Know you what such a moment holds for me? If ever I were eloquent. . .
---Rostand

Winter moon,with your pale shadows in the long grass.
Stone of light, mortal god
that speaks to the poet
Inspiring him with Love.
You, who in yourself are nothing,
and never fully yourself.
You, who stands alone in circular thoughts,
whose cold gaze is the destiny of the sea
Perchance you know something of my soul?

---b.

Walking home last evening, the sky bluer than ever, crows having made their way home, nestling up in the darkening shadows, I heard the familiar laughter of the workmen behind the corrugated fence, listening to their music (probably old Kishore) as I listened to mine (Bach). They sit around a fire, on their haunches, gulping down large swigs of milky tea. These are the poor working people that make up the majority of this country; sometimes crude, sometimes elegant (let us not talk, like the fundamentalists, in terms of class and let us put any romantic nostalgia for a 'people of the land' to one side).

Then I see a seven year-old hijabi walk up to the fence and say, in her miss holier-than-thou way: you should stop listening to music, why don't you go and pray.

Of course, you might find that funny or just irrelevant but it strikes me as indicative of how far this place has regressed over the years (this is where I usually start foaming at the mouth and launch into a vitriolic attack on the wahabis and the fucking Saudis, General Z... but what's the point).

I stare her down and then roll my eyes to the skies. And then I notice the moon through the leaves of a beautiful tree, shimmering magically, waiting for me to witness her splendour. No, despite the stupidity, the world is still the world, mysterious in all its illusionary qualities, its very fragility.

The workmen stop their chatter for a moment. And then I hear them laugh some more. I could swear they turned the music up ever so slightly. No. Human ways survive. This music that is on the verge of disappearing is always disappearing, always reminding one of heartache and exaltation. Stop. Listen. Time passes. Lahore is Lahore, and tonight we will dance beneath the moon, my love.