Home ยป Scherezade’s plea
If my hijab is no service to you, let mine eyes:
Lend an eye oh beckon forth a silly tone,
Grease a sorrow so breathe a light yet asound,
Sing alight a bird flew hard yet sully way,
Mute the lark that casts its tone,
Breathe it hard, the flaps ere conjured way;
Mine art so sunken stone - 'tis magma broke,
My soup is thought. Grill my words, heart dismay,
Breathe a sigh and sing more the ages past,
My words conjured few, bring pill on table near,
Tabled near, whilst weavers and smithers hack,
Could not hear words that ought be lack,
But, showing you stories these are much thought,
I share a wonder, the brightest pearl on smallest shell,
The brightest moon on the darkest black,
How soon I watch you sleep till Earth around
Is my glory come till mounted steed in poles along,
The snow and moon so white and cold,
Give me leave my stories bridge ye come afar,
Spare my life here, near to heaven I bestow thee,
I am no gypsy preyed, nor a Muslim prayed
I am sung of no mystery come, no sinners bought,
The art I muster and thrice I thought God in thee,
Then that might pole slapped itself upon my cheek
Gave more proof my story ought to lay,
So enter me the gates of tale, breathe the arch of hearth,
These are the stories more I tell,
In Earth and moon they watch, so too I watch an eye,
This I bring to you, More I come this ought to be.