Samarkand

The Persian warrrior sat to dine,
allergic this one, to meat.
The cave's aroma, Oh so fine!
Their fare most lavish, he sat down to eat.
Hardened sticks of bread
with cheese of camel's milk,
the first of his lavish spread,
The cheese, the best of its ilk.

He signaled to the robed groom
who at his beckon brought preparation
of the tastiest Paneer and mushroom
soaked and stuffed to perfection
sampled with sauces five,
curd, coriander, dates, spice, hing.
His taste buds sprang alive
like a gurgling mountain spring.

Then came bread spun on finger,
thinnest as Dacca Muslin kerchief.
The lady's finger did linger
long after its titillation brief.
Basmati rice, spiced and curried,
fuel did meet eager flame.
Outside the cave, stormy dunes hurried,
In his toothed cave, the story, the same.

To soothe the storm, to rest the fire,
Kulfi of Hindu Kush and camel's milk indeed.
A meal fine as is dire desert quag mire,
finer than fine is Arabian steed.
He washed his hands in water perfumed,
for a moment, in silence stunned
he lay. To prayer his palms assumed.
Allah be praised! He was back in Samarkand.