6/3 Poetry Salon: Rumi
Here's the Rumi-esque poem our salon put together:
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew.
I taste your exquisite Melos body, how special!
We can judge the morning's tensions
in the purple rings diffused into the tablecloth.
The Attic month begins with the first sighting of the new moon.
Our wine was sweet until the sun rose.
The dappled coat of a horse, piebald, skewbald or striped,
flashes in the moonlight, fades in the sun.