The Fever (Poem by Shaly)

As I laid frail on a weary thin cot of twine and of Tyrian purple velvet cushions (as the silk robe and cloak of a Byzantine emperor) my flesh shivered, As if lilac crystalline frost were my skinny sick quivering blue veins and fogged pale pearl (or white lily) ice of Winter was my crimson flamed blood, Then, silver sweat in the glint of a gold candle flame and the cinder chimney hearth, slicked (as a tongue of fire) through the crease of my brow, like a river, And as bells of gold rain in the Autumn fire, I tasted the white salt crystals of my darkened brow, a nurse, (an insolent nurse) rinsed a red washcloth in a porcelain bowl (of thin sketched blue Chinese art) and pressed with gentle fingers (gentle as ivory spider silk) upon my glistening forehead, that was red as wood. O’ Healer, I say a physician came to my chill chamber (chill as a prison cell, cold wind or a frozen hollow sigh) and he gave my reddened faced stout nurse, A vile (like a witch’s potion) of a green liquid pressed from the vines of ancient herbs of Arabia, which the fat nurse gave to me between my fatigued lips, Then, young maids with combed auburn and golden tresses, pale aprons (pale as my cheek), and hollow faces, cooked me a spiced brown broth at my hearth, But the stew of garden herbs and sweet vegetables, ached my purple-blue swollen throat, and the salt of my brow (as alexandrite gems) fell as broken golden drops. And before every cold lavender evening, the maids and the nurse would burn sweet essence of lilac blossoms and myrtle flowers, they had me stripped and bathed, In the water of blush rose petals, and my swelled feet were bandaged with rotten (and blackened) potatoes, but Healer, no mortal practice grasped my chill fever! Healer, my brown -red arms, gleam with the streaks of sweat and dark blue bleeding sores (like the boils of the plague) and quilts and scarves, in I am swathed, But nothing, tea nor broth, medicine or herbs, the steam of warm baths or the sweet nectar of citrus, nothing cures me! It is useless like the wine of drunken man or the pearls and diamonds of Cleopatra’s diadem! All sickens, nothing heals my hot-chill fever! But, you, you my Healer, the Great Physician! You can heal me with the touch of your bronze palm upon the crease of my brow! The vapor if the golden morning, Which is your soft breath shall cure my crisp iced fever, your sweet silver-pale lily stars rested at my flamed chest shall heal me, you will clean me more, than whipping!