I show you I am your freed slave by bowing.
I bend the bough of the cherry tree down
so you can eat of its fruit.
Crossing rivers you ride high on my shoulders.
In troublesome times during periods of peril,
you are behind my back unapproachable to shadows
I show you are lovely
by holding up mirrors of flowers.
I tell you you are special and unique
as the silver footprints the moon makes
walking on various nights amongst the arbors
and arbors of roses.
I am your proselyte fated.
I am a knight unvisored.
Prophesy for me I am not dreaming,
Queen of the Nile, Bathsheba.
Prophesy for me all rubies will be red.
Prophesy for me witches
will not visit the sacred ash grove.
As your lover, I choose to believe
your perfumery is real.
Your natural scent is intoxicating.
As your lover, I choose to believe
lips as divine as yours
can pronounce only prayers
and canon of the mass.
Their one true confession-
They have have loved too much,
loved too well.
I stoop and bow.
Bend and profess
saying that I love you
like a forward bullfinch
to a sharp nightingale by singing.
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