I weep for his skills:

                the perfect crafting

                of the calligraphy

 

She sighed, "Forge me the seal of our love"

She sighed, "Render yourself to me"

She sighed, "I am your vellum"

 

I weep for her artistry

 

He saw the curves, the loops, the cursive strokes:

                flow smoothly from his nib

                harmoniously

                beautifully

                over the scraped and pumiced skin

 

I weep for his ghazal

 

She knew the hidden rhyme of his love

She knew the pain of his task

She knew their loss

 

I weep for her plight:

                the perfect symmetry

                of the tughra

 

He saw behind the lines, beneath the flowing trace:

                a cold wind blowing from the east

                the two seas

                the two swords

                of his master's cartouche on her skin