He was no good at handicraft, let alone tailoring;
yet never had he sewn his gaze so sharply, so precisely,
upon a girl of such elegance—
luminous, warm with womanhood,
demanding to be loved with gentleness.
He knew then how little he possessed—
no silks to drape her, no gold for her wrists to grace,
no craft refined enough to earn her gaze;
only a quiet longing, clutched in hands unfinessed.
And still, with nothing fit to offer,
he bore a pomegranate heart—
a thousand-ruby crown;
Each seed burning brighter,
at the thought of adorning her jeweled presence.
Apr 21
Apr 21, 2026 at 5:08 PM UTC
He was no good at handicraft, let alone tailoring;
yet never had he sewn his gaze so sharply, so precisely,
upon a girl of such elegance—
luminous, warm with womanhood,
demanding to be loved with gentleness.
He knew then how little he possessed—
no silks to drape her, no gold for her wrists to grace,
no craft refined enough to earn her gaze;
only a quiet longing, clutched in hands unfinessed.
And still, with nothing fit to offer,
he bore a pomegranate heart—
a thousand-ruby crown;
Each seed burning brighter,
at the thought of adorning her jeweled presence.
Request permission to use this poem