Virgin In A Brothel

The butter from the milk is precious,

The remnants but pallid liquid, an outcome of the same churning,

It’s neither the butter, nor the residue that holds my glance,

It’s the playful act of churning, of turning, of folding into the ladle,

The tiny isolated chunks floating into a circle,

The playfulness is costly; costlier than the butter,

It can’t be eaten or given away,

Its taste runs deeper than the tongue,

Its cravings are subtle, sublime,

Its movement like that of a ballerina, graceful, feline,

Its virtue is innocence and not the laughter that surely accompanies it,

It's like a virgin in a brothel that the Madame guards above the rest,

It’s the prize in a fight and the victory bigul in a war,

It’s that elusive, indefinable, element that makes the lover’s eyes spark want,

It’s the teasing, mischievous, humor that has them laughing on the floor,

Playfulness is bloody costly, for when the spark dies, it’s almost always lost.

The Song of the Sufi Masroof