729. O crimson blooms that speak without a sound,

SONNET 729
By JH Sayyar
O crimson blooms that speak without a sound,
Thy red, red lips, where roses dare not tread,
In velvet grace and perfume rich are bound,
As if the dawn in passion’s hue were spread
When silence falls, thy breath becomes a flame,
That kindles longing in the hearts of men,
And whispers soft my wildly beating name,
Then seals the truth I dare not speak again.
Their curve—a bow that Cupid oft would steal,
To shoot desire straight through a lover’s soul,
And with one kiss, the world begins to reel,
Its fragments drawn into thy burning goal

No ruby forged, nor wine of Bacchus sips
Such fire as rests upon thy red, red lips