The Scribe and his Lover
I weep for his skills:
the perfect crafting
of the calligraphy
She sighed, "Forge me the seal of our love"
She sighed, "Render yourself to me"
She sighed, "I am your vellum"
I weep for her artistry
He saw the curves, the loops, the cursive strokes:
flow smoothly from his nib
over the scraped and pumiced skin
I weep for his ghazal
She knew the hidden rhyme of his love
She knew the pain of his task
She knew their loss
I weep for her plight:
the perfect symmetry
of the tughra
He saw behind the lines, beneath the flowing trace:
a cold wind blowing from the east
the two seas
the two swords
of his master's cartouche on her skin