I can only imagine how he must have loved the rose gardens,
The minarets of the mosques,
The songs of the nightingales in the trees
That sounded like multi-tracked serenades to the moon.
A long way from East 47th Street,
From leather jackets and Lou Reed and Studio 54,
I wonder how often he pointed his polaroid camera
In the direction of Mount Damavand
And waited for the angels to emerge from their slumbers.