had been shaping evanescent pots from the clay and moisture of fancy Nine years ago Jehanzad you were young and innocent yet still you knew that I Hasan the potter had seen in your lustrous spell-binding eyes the fire that had turned my body and soul into moon-lit cloud-capped avenues Jehanzad that dream-laden night in Baghdad the bank of Tigris the boat the oarsman s closing eyes for a weary remorseful potter that one night was amber to which still cling his body and soul and being That one night s pleasure was the river s tide which drowned Hasan the potter and did not let him surface Jehanzad in those years each day when she the luckless woman, saw me on the wheel—that had been for years my only means of livelihood— my feet bound in mud head on my knees she would shake me by the shoulders Hasan come to your senses Hasan cast an eye on your empty house How will the bellies of children be filled9 Hasan love s fool' Love is a sport of the rich Hasan took to your own house In my ears this sorrowful voice was like the sound a drowning man hears when he is within the whirlpool The torrent of her tears may well have been a stack of flowers but I Hasan the potter remained drawn to the ruins of the cities of illusion wherein is no sound no motion no shadow of a bird in flight no trace of life Jehanzad in this cooling darkness Annual of Urdu Studies #5 54