The ancient gods woke from stone to answer my questions about wolves and gypsies, then fell silent again—having shown me humanity’s unforgivable crimes.
A haunting narrative poem about encountering ancient stone gods atop the Bostan mountain, who come alive to share their grief over humanity’s destruction of wild freedom. Through smoking rings and shared sorrow, the gods reveal the fate of the great grey wolves—hunted to extinction—and the nomadic gypsies—persecuted until their music died forever.
I saw them once, the ancient gods,
majestic in stone, holding their golden rods
They were sitting atop the Bostan mountain,
laughing and drinking from an olden fountain
They were there, bathing in the golden light,
knitting random clouds - grey and stark white
I begged for attention, and their laughter froze,
they all looked down and beckoned me close
‘Come sit with us, child, let us smoke for a while,
for you have travelled far, a lonely prince in exile
Your face looks young, yet your eyes look old,
sparkling with a hunger for knowledge and not gold’
I sat with them and smoked for long,
I drank with them and rang their gong
Our rings of smoke danced and played games,
while a great fire burned, the wind stoking its flames
I loved their company and heard their tales,
I walked with them and traced their memory trails
‘Pray tell me, O gods – you are ancient and so old,
where are the wolves, the dwellers of dark and cold?
The wolves that howled, the wolves that reigned,
who loved their freedom and could never be chained?
One could smell their shaggy fur and see their burning eyes,
riding the northern winds, howling their haunting cries’
On hearing my question, the old gods grew all sad,
their mirth grew cold, and their eyes were no more glad
‘The great grey wolves, who were so grand and so bold,
whose stories were woven and were repeatedly told?
The wolves have long gone, their howls are silent forever,
they were hunted by your kind, so merciless and so clever’
We smoked some more and blew more rings,
and thought of death, the end of kings
We drank some more and drank our fill,
and thought of time, our hearts so still
Our sadness made us silent, and our silence ruled the day,
respecting all the dead wolves, our laughter held at bay
‘Pray tell me, O gods – so ancient and so wise,
where are the gypsies, with their wild, green eyes?
The ever-free gypsies, who roamed and ruled the plains,
and their powerful shamans, who could call the rains?
I can smell their fires and I can hear their harps,
their songs echoing loudly, rolling down the scarps’
On hearing my question, the old gods grew all silent,
their silence grew somber, and the wind turned violent
‘You ask of the gypsies, who once roamed the great plains,
with wings under their feet, they who hated all chains?
The gypsies have long gone, their music is dead forever,
persecuted by your kind, you have no tolerance whatsoever’
Hearing their accusing answers, seeing the real truth,
tears filled my eyes, and I forgot my own youth
‘If the gypsies have all left and the wolves have all gone,
why are you still here, with your faces sad and drawn?
If the howls are no more and the music is all dead,
why are you still here, with eyes filled with dread?’
The gods fell quiet, with their whispers all hushed,
I looked at them in farewell, my spirits all crushed
I intended to apologize, I wanted to seek forgiveness,
I wanted to just leave, ending all business
On the rich canvas of life, I saw my race, a stain,
but the old gods had all turned to stone again
Shehryar khawar 