and once the season page did turn
the fertile ground returned in yearn,
a book of black with crescent girl
to sin with ink on flesh to pearl
to raise and hook, two hour to spend
the moon will coax his dark to lend:
six silver chains a second plea
so skilled no light will pass the key,
when mind is hung, no hands will move,
seek not the theory that approves,
jewelled tears do black by night's dusk prayer,
a pack of wolves whine in their lair,
fierce thorn bleeds love into a psalm
unsung by petals that have gone.
to Sahib always
`t. imaan tretchicovmanicova
3mar11
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