By JH Sayyar
O tongue, thou sculpted flame of soft fire,
Weaves through words with velvet art,
Thy murmurs wake in me a fierce desire,
And strike sweet thunder in my poor heart.
What syllables thy ruby chamber forms
Like honeyed rain upon the barren soul,
Thy voice, more warm than spring storms,
Can mend a man, and make the broken whole.
Each whisper rides upon thy shapèd grace,
A ribbon dancing through the scented air;
I drink thy speech, and in thy voice I trace
The light that lingers in thy body's prayer
O love, thy tongue, sword and healing balm,
Rule my stormy breast, and make it calm.
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