Zenith

These griefs

These gardens on and on

Where the toad croons a tender cry skyblue

The hind of silence startled races by

The nightingale that love has bruised sings in

Your body’s bush on which I’ve picked each rose

Our hearts hang from the same pomegranate bough

And in our gaze pomegranate blossoms blow

That falling one by one have strewn the road