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.