– by Bursa Kahraman
Crimson liquid bleeds onto my skin,
As he hands me seeds of the pomegranate,
The danger does not elude my wit,
But I feed on one for it tastes like medicine.
The delightful taste descends my throat,
My love for him remains afloat,
Yet, the taste burns me to my core,
For I am adhered to him forevermore.
