The Last Jötunn

The Last Jötunn by Alp Mortal
We give and receive, incurring no debt; and hope, the currency of the trade, receipted in trust, leaves no tarnish on our fingers.
Promises made; no need to break our teeth on the coin.
Toll paid.
Nine-times-nine and one-by-one; open the gates, let down the bridges.
Welcome to the garden, where we share of the fruit of the tree.
In the plucking, faith renewed. In the peeling, desire rekindled. In the paring, arousal freed.
Take your food from my mouth, lick the juices from my lips, plant the pips, watch me grow, harvest the wood.
Lay the fire, tighten my bonds, rub the oil over my legs, strike the stone, and watch me burn.
Mull the wine, and serve the throng. Deny me no shred of optimism; glory cares not that the fish had one eye and jumped on the hook.
Deny yourself no attainable pleasure. Servitude may be our master, and The Fool, our slave, but if our hearts beat as one, t’will be the guiding light for the Knight of Cups and no jealous lovers of us will he make.
‘Til the last atom of hope remains