The Ice Dowry

In the court of the judge
they ask her the dowry.

She hears the jingle of
no coins in my pouch,
she sees the provisions of my
empty abode
she smells the fragrance of
a garden I never could have.

Ice, she says.

I rush to the souk
harassing the shopkeepers
of stale business shops,
nobody has ice!

Mary’s daughter,
a blossom of six,
offers me her ice-lolly with
all the juice sucked away,

Her smile blesses me,
I rush to the court and
present the hardened water.

She says, Glorious love!
What was the madness!
A mere drop of sweat if you placed,
was enough,
for even the Sun
will be ice henceforth,
if you call it ice.