still not the drums
from distant hedge
they call to us
of prose and pen

and gather we
as twilight sighs
no longer but words
but face meeting eyes

and strip from your flesh
your veils of cloth
and naked stand
your passions sought

feel the sweet heat
from cedar ablaze
as sweat pours forth
in this smoky haze

and the drums grow bolder
as the flute joins in
and the dance grows frenzied
in what fools would call sin

we drink from the sweat
of the flesh born of heat
ah a poets nectar
it does taste so sweet

the women of words
who have long graced this corner
now touching their passions
with nothing to fear

and the men who seek them
with bodies now seared
are joined in their passions
as their sweat bear no tears

and the poets do dance
this dance born of years
for a poets pen weeps
of their longing and fears

and as the winds sing
of seasons in change
we have but one dance
in this hedge far away

so still not the drums
from distant hedge
for they call to us all
of prose and the pen


For all you wonderful Poets!

~SAS