A LETTER TO THE GOURD I SERVE

The gourd of God, Filled with wine of purity, Intoxicant of the highest order, The coolant, the brouhaha, A factor unavoidable. A free gift on peaceful conquest, Which the lions alone attain. Exquisite craft! With tender mold, Vessel invented unto honor. Dilator of the eyes. Key to joy here, Gear of pains there, An idol engraven in my soul. Its apex is like a tender wood; Verisimilitude of gold's its neck. A twin tower in its safe, With a special box for giants. The base is like a brass, Treading on my stream tenderly. The desire I admire. Who sees this semi-god? A shadow like life defined, Mystery of the myth of Eden, Fruitful multiplication order, Mathematics of divinity. All for the gourd I serve To serve my purpose of servitude In the land of "laidol"—DEMILADE