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
she would like to rest, a sudden rustle,
a giant nest appeared on the trunk
to swallow her virgin body, in
such rush of entwining, devastating
hug, braided leafs around
her thighs pressed her deeper and
deeper in the mud. Surprised
by a sudden ravishing thrust,
instead of letting her body
to lie, fragile, limped and
crushed with all the strength
she could collect her pearl
white grin transformed into
a sharp gob, a cutting edge
to obtruncate the choking sedge,
making her relentlessly to sob.
Ripped and curled, instead there
was now a man, man covered
in blood pouring from his head,
in crimson flames searing the rest
of his blame.Feared of that
piece of skin stuck among
her teeth, in overflowing disgust
and shame she pukes out the ear of
that violent scavenger, beast
ready to feast on her naivety.
With no brevity, she began to run,
fast as she could as red drops
dripped from the soft fabric
that caressed her feet. Finally
cradled in the forest’s lap
she swore that no man
would ever dishonor, torture
or taunt her again:
“Whoever speaks, thinks or deeds
evil of me will endure excruciating
pain, forever be turned in a
wandering ghost, invisible
soul to be endlessly in search
for love but never finding,
just aimlessly float
in grief and loss!“
Then sudden blow, a frisky
wind whirl whispered in
between her tears:
“There, where golden and silver
mushrooms mate, near
the Purple creek in a small,
shelved cave, you will a find
a necklace stoned with
clouds to cheer your
spirit stitched with rose
thorns to invigorate your body
and polished with the stalk of rare,
to keep away sordid, jostling men.
This jeweled gem keep tight
nesting on your neck’s skin
for anyone with cruel temptations
who touches it three times,
in exile damnation!“
That’s how she got, stone necklace
her best, inseparable friend.
It took many moons for sun to see
her smile again: she would caress
and keep in between her small
clasped hands a precious charm
and prayed to heavens to give
her back faith in love and honesty,
nobody has to deed any harm.
Seasons passed by and little by little
feeling less bitter and brittle
she would peak out of her forests lap
collect rain and pebbles at
the nearby river bank.
Eagerness that excites radiated
again from her (starving for love) heart.
Sun returned 18 times and
that little girl has grown
but still wears her protective
stone, a one that rejected and thrown
many insane men, far away
in a desolate place. As time
becomes diamond, precious,
but hardened from futile trials
and flinty infatuations
a necklace recalls it’s own fame,
kindling rumors of a
girl named Irish rose,
pretty and redolent
but lethal and malevolent:
no men appeared to be tough
perspicuous or sincere enough
to past the test of three
or more sensations on their
tipping fingers while holding
that lingers on her body’s,
shining through her hair.
You, who’s name, color of the eyes
or past I don’t know yet
you who are too far, distant to fetch
like stars, my hands unable to catch,
you would understand the language
of erased touch, fragile moments
and the memory of glittering
winter dawns, we often forget so fast.
You would know that women
in your arms is a girl who’s
feathered step, like butterfly dance
in the stormy wind, tempestuous emotion,
shown for a second, a scent, a hint
is exhilarating sting to any sleepy heart.
You would safely unbutton
the chain swinging over her
firm breasts letting your lustful
imagination do all the rest.
Maja S. Todorovic
So here’s the story of the Irish Rose (thanks Elaine for name suggestion) – it took me only 31 days to write it 😉 I hope you like it.
I wish you all a fabulous New Year, full of creative and imaginative time.
Happy New Year!
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