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Fragile as Nectar


Rusty Broadspear

Something so sweet as purest nectar,
Nurtured over centuries
In a Tibetan monastery.
Flavour of ancient mystique
That speaks of
Qualities awesome, unknown,
And a perfume gas flown,
From mottled pewter pot,
That few have breathed.
Wreathing them
Into different realms,
They would not describe,
In answer,
To the most vicious diatribe.
Vows of silence
For ever and ever, these men.
Yes, these were men
And the secret of the nectar,
Died with them.

Now we have the nectar
On display to the world.
Published its history
Exposed some mystery
Had 'smell ins'
Tastings, perfumings
Assuming, when we shouldn't.
To assume
Is unguarded risk
A brisk delight
A flash in the night.
'Hey! Look what we got!'
'Let's explore!'
'Find out more!'

We unrolled delicate
Fabrics, that coated the pewter pot,
We undid the knot.
Committed rape
And let escape
An unlocked gate
To a pathway
Of strewn bouquets.

Remarkable, how
Something so sweet as purest nectar
Can turn sour
Within the hour.

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