A Song for Kabir (by my friend Allen Fraser Clark)

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And of what import
is all this?
wonders Kabir,
as he sees a world
where goldfish float,
their tails hemmed
in myrrh, their bulbous eyes
fixed on Urdu soap operas.

Nowadays the only creatures
who read are a few mice
that parse the titles
on the gilded bindings
of the sacred texts
before they devour
the pages.