Poem 062, Sonnet 23: Riches Poem by Samer Madbak

My cobs are gravid with the wheat of love
My chalice flows, my lustiness entire
This eaglet spread his wings, this coal’s afire
And lo! That sapling thrived in yonder grove
My buds have blossomed, Oh when will the Dove
Send reapers for the flow’rs of my desire
Before this verdure pales, these blooms expire
And I end up a dream, a buried trove…
I made my eyes a lighthouse, arms a cove
Did any sail upon my shores retire?
What maid gathered my petals? Nay! The briar
What pilgrim saw my tent but kept the rove?
My soul is gravid Oh! I am in swell…
Does no one wish to pick an asphodel?


Blaouza
July 13th 1989