On the couches of the Seraglio

On the couches of the Seraglio,

she offers me a peach,

I proffer back a pomegranate,

but keep it just out of reach.

She selects for me a melon,

of pinky-coloured hue,

and I give to her one

of honeydew.

She puts to my lips,

a slice of watermelon,

to take it and to and suck,

slowly spitting out the pips.

She smiles at me, as I give her,

my pomegranate sweet,

and she sucks so hard,

and she offers me a pear.

Our faces so wet, they glisten,

shining like the morning dew,

and we look and giggle

at the eunuchs as they listen.

They hear our words, see us play.

but understand so little,

as they watch impotently,

as thus we pass our day.

I play with the Sultana, as she

plays with me, and as for the

great Padisha,

why care for such as he?

He has each of us one night alone,

and the year would half suffice,

between one night and the next,

were I one of those he vexed

I ply him instead with tales,

of martial arms and valour,

and amuse him with my chatter,

and so I douse his fire.

If he should want my service,

it will be with my lips, but not

as others serve him,

but as he has come to wish.

But with my sweetest heart’s delight,

I play the giggling kitten,

as we feed each other fruit,

and I long for her at night.