On either side of the barren patch of the island
as she sipped the enchanted Tuscan syrup in the great highland,
upon the naked chest of the bearded lawn, delightfully she sang
the ode of the sweet sorrows.
The pink-fragranced waterlily
that bloomed in the broad daylight,
the shadow of the sunbeam
the vision of the unspoken dream.
As she lay in her robe across the island
mirrored and beguiled, she tried to wipe the joyful tears off her face
pale and cold, the only shape of water
it’s wasn’t her- an illusion, just an illusion.
The soft deep stroke
the lost love that left her broke.
The sigh of the brook, tenderly that shook
as she twirled to the music of the horrendous waves
do a little dance for me, she whispered
the sight of the last dawn
the dawn from the magician’s weave,
the weave beside the magical crystal sand
that mirrored her naked on the isolated island
of the unkissed skies and shores,
of the unremembered days
the trees in the vicinity bowed, all stood in unison.
The shadow of her,
weaving a finest illusion.