Zāl to Rūdāba
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.
December 8th, 2016