Once a wounded turtle dove ground out its pain in a bare poplar <br />When autumn sunset bid bitter farewells to the lone star <br />Three black liana lassies trudging homeward swayed to strains: <br />‘It’s not a second, Seven seconds away, ’ from Africa <br /> <br />One swore she saw the Bard linger by the reedy marshes <br />‘Just as long as I stay, I’ll be waiting, ’ at her haunches <br />Where the Préfecture’s tinted glasses ricochet sunset sadness <br />Where the long low wooden wharfs burst pyrotechnic gushes <br /> <br />Here where her weedy mud periods foul barnacled autumns <br />Where sharp shafts of icicles shoot shut her twitching bottoms <br />And in her gripping gash the killing cold relent geothermal <br />Sweet Nature yet watches over the Maudite Maid of Dungeons <br /> <br />Where the Bard of the lost astral eye keeps vigil in his tent <br />Astral pebbles skim over her sleek seductive juicy rent <br />“Ghalatan Ghalatan hami ravad ta bun-i-ku” <br />No sign of her release at day’s end when autumn’s old and spent <br /> <br />Oh! Stay yet with Ol’ Khayyam! Ye! Dream-tongued Lass of Lahore <br />Lest he pine waste away let dry poesy’s wine ever more <br />While the lush Maiden of the Main dreams on for all silver tongues <br />The stuff of such dreams as stuff universal words into Law! <br /> © T. Wignesan – Paris,2013<br /><br />T (no first name) Wignesan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ruba-iyat-of-creteil-lake-part-eleven/
