The Jungle, the Work of an Unknown Author, edited by David Swarbrick & Max de Silva.  Whether or not the original text of The Jungle included a dedication can, sadly, only be a matter of random speculation given the passage of so many  hundreds of years, but for my own part I would like to dedicate my contribution in its publication, the Preface and Notes to MM.  

I secrets  

Nothing yet  

          does the jungle give,  

however long you wait   

or watch;   

it is eternal,  

          it does not age.  

Its appearance 

is scarcely a hint

of all that is hidden - 

tight-lipped, 

dark green;

ceaselessly undisturbed, 

untouched, 

unconcerned even;

indifferent 

to what begins where,

or how, or why  -

as if it could know

that it will all

simply return.

Actually,

it is a great wall, 

limitless,

its ends unreported,

holding close

the smuggled secrets

          of this day 

and tomorrow,

of one millennia 

to the next,

filtering the sun like a censor,

carrying forward its confidential cargos 

in low capacious vaults.

Listen now;

          stop, and listen.

It speaks in ciphers

that have no key,

yet picks out imperfections

betraying them

like a spy to an enemy,

dipping, dipping 

into nameless valleys

and up the steep sides 

of unforgetting hills.

II island

The songs that have endured

are merely words,

the tunes themselves long lost;

the texts are somewhat incomplete,

but what survives

is that perfect island,

          presented in the way 

a child might dream of an island

          set in a great sea,

                    rising up from forested beaches 

                    to a centre of mighty mountains

                    that disappear into clouds.  

Immense rivers

tumble back down.

In the villages

the old dances are still young;

          new babies

          are fed on milk

          dipped in gold

          before their horoscopes are taken.

Numbers rule the universe.

Boys touch the feet of elders;

households

prepare their daughters

to come of age

washed in water with herbs, 

          the girl concealed

          until she is presented 

          with her own reflection

          swimming in a silver bowl

beneath her face.

The gems later looted from their antique tombs

were not even from the island -

          diamonds, emeralds,

even amber, to mix

with their own stones,

          pink sapphires and rubies, 

garnets, topaz, aquamarines;

rose quartz 

fine enough to see through.

Carpenters inlaid furniture 

with ivory and rare woods; 

crafted secret chambers, 

hidden drawers.

Fish sang off long sandy beaches.

And along the rivers 

stretched parks,

warehouses, jetties, mansions.

III bounty

Later,

they measured that happiness,

when happiness was a choice,

          recalling a time of bounty,

an embarrassment of great cities,

of shipping lanes that converged 

on southern ports.

The safe shallow waters of the Lagoon 

welcomed visitors.

Kings ruled,

          father to son,

brother to brother,

daring to do all they thought,

There were brindleberries and fenugreek; 

lemongrass, mangos;

          the coconuts fruited;

                    frangipani bloomed, ylang ylang, ,

even kadupul flowers, 

queens of the night.

High wooden watchtowers rose protectively

over wide courtyards,

          and gardens grew cardamom, 

cinnamon, cloves, vanilla.

Waters rippled in great tanks 

built by kings like inland seas

to flow to fields and homes.

Kitchens prepared milk rice

and new dishes

with ginger and kitel, 

turmeric, tamarind.

In the shade of palace buildings

frescos were painted, statues carved,

          the talk was of new trade routes,

marriages, miracles.

Tomorrow is tomorrow - 

                              Here I picked a flower, and this is for you.

Mangosteen ripened in orchards

their seeds, fragrant, fluid-white,

strips of edible flesh.

It was like eating sex.

Within the stupas

were thrones and begging bowls,

          and relics won in foreign wars.

From northern temples

great chariots were hand pulled 

through the crowded streets

by thousands of worshippers.

Fortifications, moats, ramparts

guarded the borders; 

          the realm was not made for defeat;

          and the fishermen flung their nets with ease.

IV underfoot

Somewhere, 

rotting in its red earth