Akbar who could not either read or write,
Inspiration of many richly detailed writings,
Capable of burning a besieged city
To the ground with all its children inside,
Practiced religious pluralism, invited all
Dust-stained denizens of the fields
Of reflection, wearers of patched garments,
Sitters in the dust, insouciant recluses,
And rabidly self-congratulatory proselytizers
To attend and join the debates in his palace,
Proclaimed, all religions are equally true
Or all religions are equally illusory. Real piece
Of work, that Akbar. Never stopped going
To mosque but popped up as a worshipper
At Hindu temples, Jesuit churches, Parsi
Fire services. Supported Sikhs, proposed
To Jesuits and Imams that they take turns
Walking through fire, to see who was right,
Even took a crack at founding his own,
Divine Faith, with himself at the center,
And although it did not take, it did provide
The world with one of the most slyly
Sacrilegious puns: Allahu Akbar, which could
As well claim God is great and God is Akbar.
Some four centuries later, in another land,
I sat by a relatively uncultured river, clean
Waters at altitude blown back against gravity
Prettily but unsuccessfully, of course,
By the incoming autumn wind bestrewing
Quaking aspen leaves as magic, floating
Gold coins on the ruffled green waves. There
I read about Akbar, and I thought how well
He could have played a part in any allegory
In which his giveaway name was Culture.
His father had blinded his uncle. His son
Beheaded his beloved biographer. You see?
When winds paused, even the surface sank.
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