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 sireOnly her eyes and a smile to quench his desire.