Ghosts 
(The eternal pain of Exile)
On the windswept plains of ancient Pars
Ghosts stir from half a century’s slumber:
Persian valleys, blossom-heavy boughs
And Khayyam’s whispering, silver streams
Persian winds scent Seychelles nights with perfumes from another life
Long-forgotten faces, places, and the musky scents of spring
Ruffle the calm waters of my island exile
With a pining for home
