Eyes Are Not To Be Spoken About

Bless your sugar lips, that split like pomegranate halves, bleeding Shirazi wine onto my furnaced altar. To witness the height of my drunkenness, Hafez will leave his cup. Bless your ears, which stir at the call of my name through their whirls, my endearments pilgrimage. They are messages from a soul that has relinquished its ego, at the dust of your door. Bless the curve of your throat, for the taste of honeyed fig rests upon your tongue. Utter, and restore life into this body too weary for the weight of love like the reviving whisper of Christ. Bless your hair, for what rose, musk, and champak; must be crushed by billion tiny crystals on the rare summer night’s storm to resemble its scent. If Zephyrus is bound by my longing, he will heed not Eros, but bear your perfume to me. Bless your spine, a narcissus in bloom, my eyes are trembling bees, hovering on its golden fire. Shall I not press my lips to its stem, as a devotee overjoyed by an oblational flower? Bless your unyielding fingers, that tender at the folds of my silk. They linger until our youths quiver, and the fingers I only saw tremble, roughly disrupt the propriety they praised for our heathen ways. Bless, Bless, Bless! All that I adore in you, I cannot share with the world — Let them only know that The sun and earth have melded into your form; O, what a glorious Tamil craft by the unhurried hand of God!