What is Timbuktu?

Ancient or modern,
Young or old,
Fact or fiction,
Just what is Timbuktu?

First heard in hymns formed by God’s disciples,
Next found scattered within a novel of unknown name,
The question remains unanswered.
But in a famous play and musical the name appears again.

Is it in Africa?
Is it in Asia?
Is it where Lady Macbeth buys the perfumes to sweeten her little hand?
Or is it where Captain Blood sailed his fair ship?

Entering it now,
The low dwellings coated with desert dust.
The Sun shines out over the market bough,
Where traders of various colours bark and barter.

The soft silks of Persia, the seductive aromas of Arabia,
The beautiful artworks of Italy, the scented wine of France,
Grizzled furs from Russia, dejected and sorry slaves from Africa,
Crafted cutlasses from Prussia, tantalising tea from India,
Quaint pieces of china from Qing, Sheffield steel from Britain.

A bustling marketplace.

But above stands the grand palace,
Filled with exotic beauties unspoiled and untouched,
Veiled by jewel-encrusted curtains in colours of all kinds.
Like a ghost, I can penetrate the steel ring and enter.

In my mind.

In my mind Timbuktu exists,
Frozen in time.
Time cannot lay a hand on it,
And it’s all mine.