For nine hundred and ninety nine nights
he lay breathless in the garden of delights,
watching her sweet breast rise and fall,
awaiting the caress that never came at all.
On the thousandth night as the peacock cried,
her pale hand arose to touch his side,
and his poor heart burst to leave him lying
in the garden of delights.
Mournful is the peacock’s cry.
[first posted 7 June 2014]
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