In old Baghdad, Scheherazade
melted one reluctant heart
with story upon story, for
a thousand shining nights and one.
The sultan, in his grand unease,
fidgeted with worry beads,
eager for the evening's feast
of fables and exotic song.
He heard of journeys filled
with wonder, merriment and
mortal danger, monsters unimagined
lurking in the path of vagabonds;
he wept pearls large as pigeon's eggs
and laughed a hail of diamonds,
but nothing could distract him
from the magic tales she spun.
She lived in more enlightened
times, when poets could disarm
the strong, and when the phoenix
bird of hope could stay the sword.
In Old Baghdad, Scheherazade...
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103030700595
Свидетельство о публикации №103030700595
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