Amongst the freezing late night’s hour.
Under the lantern’s sour light.
I sensed a calm, tranquilling sight,
that like a poor maid of yore
has called for me to adore once again,
the playful whirling of scarce grace, which now was in galore.
There I have heard her virgin voice that muttered to me
“do not lose joice.”
And with a dazzling obedience,
I took her word without a deviance,
Enchanting wrinkles of long grievance,
With signs of pure childish coy,
As even simple disobedience was not what I could now employ.
Beholding how with tiny tweaking glimmer in the air,
She took in her beguiling gentle grasp,
My very soul, exposing it to rare hints of careless gust.
And with a fragile lover’s touch, advised to join her so much
In the chaotic reverence of nutch,
At which she laughed without a clutch —
To that, I answered with rejoice,
“I guess you leave me with no choice.”
Still, as we spun in witless turnings,
And her cold fingers went on learning.
Eagerly fostering and tapping,
So bravely caressing and mapping,
The hefty nature of my brow,
Fro came a thought that yet could not withdraw.
Perplexed was I of this unearthly blessing.
This chanting heat that she was sending.
Belonged to winds of freedom’s blizzard,
Or to the ashes that have withered,
And were now dangling on shoulders of a knave,
who in half vexed perception of the rave,
Noticed the harsh, cold-blooded fact,
That marble veil is being laid upon the tract. —
Afraid was I when the white embers,
Have entered my uncherished chamber,
Reminding me of storming haste, at which we left the late December.
Yet with ambition to decide, what should I praise as my new bride,
Among the loving sorrow’s past,
And happiness of morrow’s lust.
I called to her in search of lore,
“Oh, divine maiden of the yore,”
“Methinks I lose the granted poise,”
“So guide me now with your keen voice.”
But silent was she in my presence,
Without a violent sign, in essence,
closing my eyes by her hand’s haze,
and asking me to play her maze.
She ordered me to never dream.
To never yearn and at once earn
The truth of beauty that we burn,
In mindless worries of the ticking,
As if we lived for hourhand’s bidding.
For if we dream, we dream of dreaming
In hours precious — of days bewilling.
“So live,” she whispered to my ear.
“And do not wish for instance’s freezing”
“So live for you don’t have another choice”
“And all that’s left for you is to keep joice”
