Fatime El-Masri Poet Rhyme

At The Madrasa

At The Madrasa

On the floor, we three intertwine,
glances that linger, hands that align.
Many pages of verse we recite and tread,
A hand touches hand, no words are said.

Fingers trace the zippers glide,
A sudden warmth, a spark inside.
Bare beneath fabric, thrill within,
A rushing pulse under the skin.

Lips graze nipples, tender and close,
In the library, where no one knows. 
Kisses that linger, tender and wet, 
Stirring a fire, dripping hot sweat.

Heavy breath, our bodies collide,
Fingers penetrate, no need to hide.
******’s surge, crashing in flight,
lost in each other, moans of delight.

Among all the girls in the room,
Where passion and love bloom.
In warm embraces, the hours slip by,
Until our teacher lets us go with a sigh.

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Joel Hawksley January 28, 2025 at 1:42 PM You have created a piece that is both tender and unflinching, a celebration of love and longing that remains grounded in its humanity. Thank you for sharing this courageous and evocative work. It not only left me deeply moved but also made me feel a sense of trust in your poetic voice—a voice that approaches even the most intimate subjects with grace and authenticity.