On History

Someone once told me 

That the Chinese believe

History is cyclical 

That it does not unfold 

It twirls 

That the long strand of time does not grow

It curls 

I think of Israel and Judea

Tyrants and their heroes and more tyrants, more heroes 

And heroes who decay into tyrants 

To face heroes of their own

I think of the cartographer in the skies 

Who draws lines 

Onto India and China and watches

For heartbeat centuries then

Erases, smiles, draws again 

I think of the unchanging beat of the pen against the tablet 

And all earth and skies dancing to it 

But most of all I think of the drawer in my wardrobe 

Where in an ornate box of sheesham and pearl, 

I hide a lock of your hair 

And that every time I dare

(To push the hubris of history aside and)

Unlock the drawer, once again,

It has curled.