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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.
Copyright ©
David Drowley
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