I may not know your name yet,
but I dream of warm, delicate sunset
where I sense you in the sweetness
of summer watermelons
you are too far, distant to fetch
like stars, my hands unable to catch.
I may not know the color of your eyes,
but I would recognize your kindness,
a tender gesture of a stranger passing by
when tired day spits me out
and my heavy, wrinkled sigh is caught
in a gentle grip and contagious smile.
I may not know of your past
but I would hear your silent prayer
where you long for fragile moments
those diamond years crushed to dust,
for missed glittering winter dawns,
erased touch, forgotten so fast.
I may not know your language yet,
but you and only you would understand
the story I’m about to tell:
a story of a girl who’s eagerness ignites
leaves the trail of light behind.
Feathered step, rose petals that excite
like butterfly dance in the stormy wind
tempestuous emotion, shown for a second
a scent, a hint, exhilarating
sting to any sleepy heart
awakening love buried deep,
mending hope that’s teared apart.
Her soul is moon, faint and dim
as seen through tree branches,
but soft and inviting, staunchest
in any life mystery.
Her hair like a wavy tapestry
of cascading Irish basalt
frames her silky face,
cherry lips, slightly apart
with each breath tremble,
like a leaf on a sudden breeze.
Her eyes, deep green
mountain lakes hide secret,
fragments of fear, haunted
deer in the spring meadow,
which only men with pure intentions
could comprehend, could see.
She is small, spindle and thin
always accompanied by a shadow
of red umbrella, bouncing in her hand
as she collects rain and white pebbles
at the nearby river bank. Her dress,
neatly ironed, patchworked cotton
apostrophizes her hourglass shape.
An ivory button adorns
her neck as collar lace
over-brims her firm breasts.
And also something shiny,
an ikon, heavy but tiny
that rests on her belly
while she sleeps
and sometimes dangles,
swings like a pendulum
from an oversized chain
around her chest when she
plays out in the watery stains.
Made of special stone,
mirroring cerulean skies
of the day earth gave birth
to her, anyone mean who touches
it three times, immediately dies.
It hangs there, like a charm
to keep her safe from a dangerous
world, world she thought once knew
but deceived her, nothing she feels
anymore is really true. I want to
tell you of that particular night
when he came, heir of the of the
Southern Land to steal her peace
beauty and innocence. He was tall
and strong, with arms that could build
castle walls and dark brown hair like
fur of the bear. His robe, unwavering
steel of ocean shells draped
posture a of skerry, resisting
any erosive attempts. But his face was
a kite, furious dragon prepared
any time to strike. Pretending
to be an oak tree where at early evening
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