Harem

The perfumed pools and sun-warmed tiles, they cradle us.
We sip the smoke of dreams from ivory tubes, and laze
Under the supple hands of those that never speak a word,
So as not to profane our ears.

We are silk, we are velvet and brocade, a hundred
Hungry jewels turned to the light. There is no color
Like our color, no song like our songs. When stroked,
We purr, when kissed, we hum.

This is our world but not of our making. We smile
Behind our hands at being spoiled so, for if he knew
That we would wear sackcloth and ashes, make our beds
In the mud, for his caress...