How the arrow of your tresses throw
an aurous moon regal enough
to renew. My arms grow taller
than cypress. You, a Simurgh's plume
as child playing with an open sea.
I have with me the greed of bees
for your laughs preserved in pomegranate.
You, the reliefs upon desert sweat. You,
the crimson after disrobe.

I love that you must be claimed
with both fists. Say in harems of tulip
this forest shaken between thighs,
snake-holes for drums, O Rūdāba, I tell
the blade in your back full with want
beneath obduracy diving into my tongue
as wings, how to bewitch my branches,
how to mistress what I master. How you to me
becomes a sweet sojourn withstood.