Rose Against the White

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As the sun sets in a sky bedecked
with crimson and gold,
she opens her dancing green eyes,
which glint like emeralds against the shadows.

She is rose against the white,
lying among the pillows
in the splendor of her hair,
framed only by the flickering light

of a candle in the corner
that softly illuminates successively
her smile and neck and breasts while
her legs retreat into shadow.

As I lay down beside her,
I am warmed by the heat of
her body and the intensity
of her melodious voice.

Like a rose in full bloom that
opens to the falling rain,
she opens herself to my trembling touch
and murmurs of a longing love.

Our lips embrace like friends
long separated while our bodies
twine together in that dance
that is humanity’s birthright.

This primeval dance, guided by instinct,
is like water crashing against rocks or
a fire overtaking dry brush or
wind sweeping through a canyon.

And like the horizon on the water,
we are joined in inseparable unity,
crying out inarticulate as our
beings unite in a single essence.

And then . . . silence. And stillness,
like the gently rain after a storm or
the cold stars after a sunset or
the infant asleep in mama’s arms.

Many works cannot quench love,
neither can floods drown it. If one
offered for love all of his wealth,
it would be utterly condemned. (found here)