Bijapur

This is my room, 
Here, where the grass grows thickest
Beneath these broken arches,
High, my unfinished dream

My father built many houses
None more magnificent
Than that one to the East
Where he lies, that arrogant bastard

I asked him once who deserved more 
The healer or the healed
My father only laughed and left me
Sixteen years of misery

Across the street 
Where the ruins touch the sky 
My son was in silver chains 
Dragged to shameful submission

This is my grave
Perfect gardens, ancient trees,
An illusion carefully restored