By Fiza Pathan
Letters have been placed upon the glass table, says the wounded Pride who is my Lady.
A teacup of mirth passes between us over a tear drop of woe, for the love that has all but gone.
The nursery where the sick children lie eating their cream is packed to overflowing,
No milk white for my sorrowful beauty-no fevered rest for the saddest eye.
Encumbered I laugh over red wine and cold salmon, what is the news that this damp weather beholds for the poor of spirit?
Lighthearted let my enslaved spirit dance until all the terrace steps tumble upon my head, set my burial aside however, for a time after dinner.
Suppertime my beloved, eat to relish my hope of amour-gorge on the red meat which the cook has prepared so fair and trim.
Soft to touch and likened to the stag’s nostrils are the remnants of your face beloved,
Take a sip of white wine for the red blood to simmer down with the closing tide.
Marry me now as the dawn presses nearer,
Marry my past with our children in tow,
Marry my breast in bloody verse that spurts forth mercilessly.
Copyright © 2013 by Fiza Pathan
Image courtesy: Google Images (for representative purpose only)
A link to my book on Amazon: