The park leopard in me here,

 Watching alertly a hare,
She, straightening her
Tangled mopped blonde hair,
Taming with grace fair
Rebellious golden fur.
A flash spell with Mone,
In front of the Nettelbeckplatz fountain,
It’s veins captured our foundation,

Pressed waters  gushed, crushed 

On the bronzed piano,

The sound of clapping tongues!

A precursor to days ahead,
I reflected,watched and heard
About her beauty within.
I am certain I know
Those curls are a pleasure,

When high is the moon,

And noone desires to mourn 

I desire not a Knight 
But play with them at
night.
Wrapped round my fingers

My heart a gentle nervous fevers,
Feeling your original curly scent
Don’t you know 
Those curls are a treasure,

High are the premium stakes
A diamond needle in haystack.

As they tickle my soul,
In their Serpentine  intent,
I want to weave not bloat
Your inherited rare blonde
Into wild cute disarray!
Curls and more curls,
A field of windswept
growth.
I want to bury my nostrils
Into the heady perfume
Of your silent sworn 
Curly skulled Oath,
And I won’t let anyone
Desecrate those curls again!

By Collen Kajokoto 

* The writer is an exiled Zimbabwean poet.He currently lives in Germany as a fellow with PEN Germany’s Writers-in-Exile program