Proposal Poem by Ibn Ali

Listen
My hands will never hurt you,
Though my words may tend to bruise,
Yours may pain me sometimes too,
I can take a hurtful truth,

The world is full of treasure,
Underneath the dust,
I can't unearth it all,
Or guarantee enough,
My provision's tied with fate,
And wants surpass my needs,
I could live to be rich,
Or you could attend a pauper's wake,
How much gold, when I die, how old?
All these things I do not know
But I'll tell you this,
A hundred pounds or a hundred thou,
Feel free to name your dower,
I'd give it if I have to give,
You're worth more to me than any gift,
My queen,
And you are my Queen,
I want that you should marry me,
Your loss is a thought I daren't entertain,

If you bear through all the loathsome pain,
I think we have potential,
God willing we'd have caramel babes,
And they'd be multilingual,
I'd tell them you're your mothers child,
You'd say you're just like your father,
You'd ask me why I told them off,
In sternness: I'd say ‘discipline, '
You'd say: ‘yes, but not so harsh'
I could see you giving baths
Their hair would curl and wind,
Even when brushed a thousand times and this would make you laugh,
I'd wish they had their mother's eyes, their mother's nose, their mother's smile, their mother's glow, their mother's shine,
But retain their father's heart,
I'd teach them how to read and write,
And read to them each night.
Even sneak in a poem or two
In the hope that they'd love poems too,
If they don't, then it's alright,
We overlook the basic things,
And simple pleasures get demeaned,
Like sleeping next to
And waking up to,
The woman of my dreams