It took place at the sea, in the foam of the ocean, Where the carriage of city rarely arrives. In the tower of a palace the queen was playing Chopin, And to sound of Chopin the page fell in love. It was all very simple, it was all very dear: The page asked her to cut pomegranate in half, And she gave him a half, and the page she did tire, And to sound of sonatas the queen fell in love. And she later submitted, submitted with thunder, Like a slavegirl the queen slept the night till the day. It took place at the sea, where the turquoise waves wander, Where the page's sonatas and azure foam play. By Igor Severyanin Translated by Ilya Shambat https://sites.google.com/site/ibshambat
For those of you who did not know, Russia has pomegranate varieties that can survive around the northern edge of the Black Sea, and is undoubtedly what this poem is referring to. Kind of reminds me of the poem "The Owl and the Pussycat", with its reference to quince.
Quince is our gay cousin... ... Granny says he acts shamefully... ... dat's why we don't have anythin' to do with him.