More than a thousand and one nights of passion,
unbeknownst you were a mindful diversion
with erotic, tender tales – neither enacted nor told –
enveloping in embraces that you did not hold.
Woven in the fabric of Sultans and Princes, you had
cast the enchanting spell of a Shaharazad;
in with the desert wind, a trace of lost and found
whispering delectably out with that breathless sound.
Every lecherous detail carved there in its place,
where the fingers of blind posterity could trace
hieroglyphic pathways for memory to hone,
and captured on plutonic walls in a heart of stone.
Will wanting draw you in a genie’s puff to exclaim,
"At your command I perform three wishes the same"? |