Chris Cummins

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to Uzbekistan?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate
Rough winds may lash the bleak Khazret Sultan
And drift the Qizilqum to barchans great
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines
And summer highs of 40C are known
Yet every fall the temperature declines
Perchance to chill the Gissar to the bone
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor let evaporate the Aral Sea
Nor shall thou rig elections, nor evade
The monitors from the OSCE
So long as Timur's Samarqand doth thrive
So long Uzbekistan, and thee, survive