shalimar's epigraph

I've just started reading Shalimar the Clown, which I'm trying to ration slowly, as I only managed to include two novels in the small collection of books that have come with me (damn Alitalia and their meagre baggage allowances!) I'll write more once I've finished, but so far I'm certainly enjoying it (more than any of Rushdie's recent offerings, more than anything since The Moor's Last Sigh). And I was completely disarmed by finding that one of the book's two epigraphs (the other is "A plague on both your houses!") is from one of my favourite poems by one of my favourite poets. As it happens, Agha Shahid Ali's book The Country Without a Post Office was one of the other few volumes that made it into the suitcase. This is "Farewell":

At a certain point I lost track of you.
They make a desolation and call it peace.
when you left even the stones were buried:
the defenceless would have no weapons.

When the ibex rubs itself against the rocks, who collects
 its fallen fleece from the slopes?
O Weaver whose seams perfectly vanished, who weighs the
 hairs on the jeweller's balance?
They make a desolation and call it peace.
Who is the guardian tonight of the Gates of Paradise?

My memory is again in the way of your history.
Army convoys all night like desert caravans:
In the smoking oil of dimmed headlights, time dissolved- all
winter- its crushed fennel.
We can't ask them: Are you done with the world?

In the lake the arms of temples and mosques are locked
 in each other's reflections.

Have you soaked saffron to pour on them when they are
  found like this centuries later in this country
      I have stitched to your shadow?
In this country we step out with doors in our arms
Children run out with windows in their arms.
You drag it behind you in lit corridors.
if the switch is pulled you will be torn from everything.

At a certain point I lost track of you.
You needed me. You needed to perfect me.
In your absence you polished me into the Enemy.
Your history gets in the way of my memory.
I am everything you lost. You can't forgive me.
I am everything you lost. Your perfect enemy.
Your memory gets in the way of my memory:

I am being rowed through Paradise in a river of Hell:
  Exquisite ghost, it is night.

The paddle is a heart; it breaks the porcelain waves.
It is still night. The paddle is a lotus.
I am rowed- as it withers-toward the breeze which is soft as
    if it had pity on me.

If only somehow you could have been mine, what wouldn't
have happened in the world?

I'm everything you lost. You won't forgive me.
My memory keeps getting in the way of your history.
There is nothing to forgive.You can't forgive me.
I hid my pain even from myself; I revealed my pain only to
         myself.
There is everything to forgive. You can't forgive me.
If only somehow you could have been mine,
what would not have been possible in the world?

(for Patricia O'Neill)

-Agha Shahid Ali