Friday, November 26, 2004

The Oak


His bedroom
A realm of encores
Wherein yielded my soul
A wealth of hopes
Dreams in store
Glittering words
Pouring through the thatched hairs
Of that midnight sun


In his bedroom
I forsook my gloom
Drowned in the noises
Of some chivalrous love
How would I not remember
His delicate touch
I was his little echo
Not as yet an ode
Now, I became an old song


Unforgettable those walls
Wherein my awe I overwrote
The morning brown table
With Schopenhauer and Proust
The needling brooks
Caressing the oak
Past the wall


Yielding my nerves
I just smoked
Then long hours of hope
Vanished as seconds of thought
Merciless Helios, behold!
The morning broke
My fear was sprung


And for the last time
His lips my name would recall
I would occupy my throne
And upon my will
Even the dew, would cease to fall
Beneath his arms
Powerful swords
Around his back
Timeless oak
I would dwell in comfort


All through the night
Selene would ail my sores
And for the last time
Of my oak
In my thoughts
I took hold


Simply by contemplating
The remembrance
Of what, among my riches
Would not be counted
Henceforth, anymore
My beautiful oak
As promised to the sun
With the arrival of Aurora
My throne, I forsook


At last
I took a glance at the walls
And no longer my dreams
They wished to hold
It was a momentum
And then this wanderer
Continued his road


Bidding good-bye
To whom once sought my soul
I smiled to the oak
Whose glowing face
I saw no more
And to a bucolic milieu
Where I belong, yet long
I returned.

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