The Nightingales Of Platres 3 Poem by Morgan Michaels

So long as their lairs were buff and good
to serve as choirs from which to sing-
scorning birds of lesser skill
who did, after all, what they could and will.
For them, I guess, it was eternal spring
even in December, blear,
which all the world made pleasant
even when it very wasn't
to the pleasure and vexation of each listening thing.

And I found, from so high up, that just
as their wings lifted them to the skies
passing through the harp-strings of their song
lifted a listener into visions-
nothing, mind you, you could trust
or hold for very long:
hookahs amidst carpets stained with flower-colors,
saffron heaps and snow-clad peaks and dark-eyed houris,
dervishes a-whirl and dancing janissaries.

Why, thanks to them, I saw the Sultan walking with his wives
one night, one than the next more laughing-beautiful
along a cloudy divot, resembling a carpet
by the moon's bright light, so blue and full.
Surprise, when on the carpet's pile
all began to weave and smile
under a baldachin of gold and silver leaves,
but to vanish-never seen again,
once they ended their tree-born refrain.