To
JVE
A
globe of ice at the bottom of a tumbler
Melts
by a single drop every single night.
We
live in a world tyrannized by the number --
A
silver bell tolls three four five six seven eight,
And
softly, oh so very softly, distant and faint,
The
echoes ring off clouds and curtains, then slumber.
The
last tone, which never comes, startles the egrets
From
their rookery in the tower, its ramparts
Blasted
and collapsed, abandoned without regret.
So,
Scheherazade, the talker, dealer in hearts,
Each
night turns a drop of her blood into a pearl --
Better
to become jewelry than a dead girl.
The
thousand nights will pass and leave her dreaded sire
Only
her eyes and a smile to quench his desire.
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