She was a concubine
Seventh in the series.
Lean and pale
With a chubby nose
Yet, young and fresh
For the plump old caliph.

Like a newly brought shoes
He wore her day and night
Around the garden and
Within the royal glass chamber.

She was b(r)ought
From her hill side hut
Which smell of smoke
Over dry hard ice.

She never saw
the other number series
Only pale mute screams
Of exhausted taste.

Maids in service
Frowned at her
For her silence
And dry wet eyes.

She loved her chief maid, Saya
Who brought her lilies
And kissed her bruises.
Together they swam across
The channel of brute night loves

They danced,
Close together
All through the night.
Loved in the wild dark backyard
When they heard
The potbelly lust
In another chamber corner.

The thick green backyard
At the far of end
Had a mossy well
Shaded with chrysanthemum and
Covered with strawberries.

The well was insane.
Had a legend etched
To its thick damp stone walls.

It hung all over
the bare chamber walls
As a royal reminder.
A ritual followed for sure.

One frenzied twilight
The amorous number seven and
Her warm breathed maid
Heard the well sing
Of royal tales buried.

A dozen hands rose
With a bouquet of weeds
Hugged them over
As biting breeze

In their shared bizarre ecstasy
The tales sucked in deep
To their frosty fluidic world
Those who fell in love
Outside the chamber tower.


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