My pen's ink in your marrow, your beauty in mine,
The nib formed our names, hitherto in shadow,
Which alphabet spoke your allegiance, which mine?
My lip's blood red, redder by you and wine,
The muezzin called, the honeyed night still present in I,
Why did we thieve time, who levied such a fine?
Little, a little, my lost hand,
weaved a past, in your great hair's dark
Who'll write this unabridged, you or I?