Song of the Slave
This teapot, now
Catching the light from the oil lamps
It is my love letter to you.
Each drop that I pour into the cup
To hand to you at the end of the day
Is a tear I have shed for you
Is a kiss I dreamed of setting upon your brow.
Master.
Sultan.
Dark-eyed Kurdish battle god
Your cloak a banner of glory behind you
The wheeling stars a crown above your head.
I kneel here, unable to do more
Than clean, than cook, than serve.
Slave, they call me, servant, animal
But this heart, such as it is, is a gift to you
The meagerest of gifts, the least thing of value given
To one so great.
But it is all I have.
Slave.
Servant.
Animal.
And here I will kneel until your return
Cleaning your armor, mending your clothes
Warming your tea
Here, with this love letter and its silver sheen,
Reflecting downcast eyes and silent lips
And a heart that beats only for you.
Here, my King.
Drink.