Caravan

In the shimm’ring empty distance Of a vast central Asian steppe, A faint and formless shape appeared. A soundless mass of black and brown Rose like a djinn from out the dust Of the long traveled Great Silk Road. As it drew closer on its course, Under a wide and hot noon sky, That vague and slowly swaying shape Cloned a train of two-humped camels, And dark-faced nomads robed in blue, Who marched in sync with Borodin. On they trekked toward Samarkand With their load of silks and spices, Mixing sounds of bells and voices; Indifferently passing by To vanish in a distant haze As do so many of our days.