Come fill my ears with the flowers' seas.
    Fill me with valleys of markets
    where the only vagrants are cherries
    and oranges and kisses that proselytize
    from their shoulders.
    Where lilies and peonies ride bicycles to school
    and the paths of laments are smoothed
    by the apple's song. Your knees
    are tiny terraces where roses take flight.
    At your waist, troubadours read the book of the earth:
    the lust of figs ends at your lips--
    water and horses become companions at your feet.
    At your belly's river, two handkerchiefs surrender.
    War begs for mercy.

Copyright © Eva Skrande, 2002.  All Rights Reserved.