Being Open to Love Once Again
In Iran, I've been told,
Lovers feed each other
honey from their fingers.
While I stumbled as if blind,
traversing a barren landscape
where no bees gather nectar from saccharine jewels
amidst the berries, lush.
With sightless eyes I groped my way
across a desert, over mountains, through a shadowed valley.
And never once was I stung
by the honey-making bee.
My fingers were not stained by raspberries bursting red
nor fat and juicy blackberries
where bees buzzed frantically flitting erratically
drunk, and seeking more sweet drink
among the blushing blossoms.
And then, you. alight! The crème de la crème
bearing food of the gods
dripping from your fingers
upon my starving lips.
You arriving luminous
to saturate my thirsty stupor and cast me unaware
to land on terra firma, the province of beloveds
who gorge on golden syrup
from one another's fingers.
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