– that beautiful girl born from the blood of knights.
It’s no wonder I say “faris” to mean “warrior” –
look at her, and look at:
battlefields and horses, and firelight swords torn asunder.
It’s no wonder she says:
“Maybe you’re doing too much” –
Baby, my blood runs hot and – generous:
thunder never doubts itself, nor says: “Am I too loud?”
I am allowed – my generosity!
Like Al-Ta’i before me, my horses
Only run on gust and cloud.
People like me love like planets collide:
magnificence is just my crowd
Brilliance dresses my shoulders – my cloth and shroud!
Am I to love like lesser men?
Like cowards drowned – in normality?
My people are selective, darling – I’d be disavowed!
My bloodline runs longer than Styx, I’ve found – I took it,
and with it – your head I crowned.
I made a crown with the very sound –
of the pained sighs of lovers!
People like me don’t love like roaches: modestly,
Nor fuck around. Worthless love is all love,
Unless you love no man – no man
who breathes you in,
and every time, exhales a frothing bloodhound.
Is no man who between his fingers
twirls the momentum – of eternity,
and in his back, guarding him, fate itself stands sentry –
is no man who doesn’t try hard for you, except
he rewrote the dictionary,
so that even “mediocrity” for him means “immensity” –
he doesn’t try anymore – excellence isn’t anything for him
but the mentality – with which he decides, from scarcity,
he will create opulence, forge plenty!
– (see: the blood of Arabs, Moors) –
Is no man he who loves you, he is no man when he –
happens, by your luck alone, to be legendary –
who loves like no other – this man who loves you,
He is no mere man, when he – happens to be – happens
to be me.