#poem #poetry #amwriting the muslim's tale xi

how fresh was the tumbling air
of that shaded outer garden
perfumed by one thousand lilies
in promenade upon the ponds

in serenade joined in the fountains
bedecked with rainbow'd hanging orbs
drinking in the brackish mountains
from them crystal water flowed

and here the formal flower bed
and there the tufted overgrown
blended perfect by a naive artist
of those mysteries nature owns

over the path in graceful arches
hung pregnant vines of fist-sized grapes
at casual reach between the columns
were trees of bay and figs and dates

twice the path ran over bridges
and once ali paused to look
to see the panoply of fishes
swimming free about the brook

for though the beauty of this garden filled his soul
as a mother hearing - joyous cry of life begun
the wicker-basket - of his burden - bit his hip
while drooling down his leg blood ran

that blood - that blood - of which he had tasted
on splintered remnants of what remained
when judiciously split and ripped with tongs
to silence him against all claims