The pomegranate sorbet he
peeled in blood red curls,
And reveled in the pungent sweetness of the whirls,
And yet she would not take this icy fruit unladen,
But mixed instead vanilla, white as milky maiden.
He watched her stir them carefully a twixt,
Although if alone vanilla only she would’ve fixed.
The rivulets of red and white so painted,
A love forever hopelessly thus tainted.