Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
The Nightingales Of Platres 3
So long as their lairs were buff and good
to serve as choirs from which to sing-
scorning birds of lesser skill
who did, after all, what they could and will.
For them, I guess, it was eternal spring
even in December, blear,
which all the world made pleasant
even when it very wasn't
to the pleasure and vexation of each listening thing.
And I found, from so high up, that just
as their wings lifted them to the skies
passing through the harp-strings of their song
lifted a listener into visions-
nothing, mind you, you could trust
or hold for very long:
hookahs amidst carpets stained with flower-colors,
saffron heaps and snow-clad peaks and dark-eyed houris,
dervishes a-whirl and dancing janissaries.
Why, thanks to them, I saw the Sultan walking with his wives
one night, one than the next more laughing-beautiful
along a cloudy divot, resembling a carpet
by the moon's bright light, so blue and full.
Surprise, when on the carpet's pile
all began to weave and smile
under a baldachin of gold and silver leaves,
but to vanish-never seen again,
once they ended their tree-born refrain.
poem
by
Morgan Michaels
solid border
dashed border
dotted border
double border
groove border
ridge border
inset border
outset border
no border
blue
green
red
purple
cyan
gold
silver
black