O my enchantress of blue blood!
Ye maketh my emotions a wild flood,
Mesmerizing mortals with your charms,
Making them revolt with deadly arms!
Thy mystic upper lip mole
Attracts mankind like does the black hole.
Thy beauty serves heaven as its emblem;
For thee is written by poets, dreamland’s anthem.
Nurtured with care by heavenly saints
That thy holiness may maketh satan faint!
Queen! Ye maketh me burn with envy;
Maketh me frighten if you’ll turn a poison ivy,
Killing only those who love thee truly;
Showing no mercy; death ye giveth quickly!
The stolen gaze ye gave me that day
Maketh me unsettle and nervously gay,
Bringing forth, inside me, a great tidal wave
That broke the ice and pave
A way straight into my heart,
And made it burn like a coal in the hearth.
Queen do be kind to me,
Don't throw and drown me in this poisonous sea.
Instead, breathe into me your love potion.
Fill my heart full that my love goes in motion.
Every hour, every moment, my pulses beat
Singing thy name, and every meal I eat,
All these done to glorify thy existence,
Celebrating thy liveliness that will quench,
One fine day, the very thirst
Of my longing heart with a great burst
Of utmost happiness and fulfillment.
Frequently wild storms bringeth the news
Telling many heart breaking stories of you,
Whispering that ye art in someone's arms
That maketh me desperately alarm!
O my heart’s Lolita,
Don't be someone's Senorita.
Make me no longer folly
But be mine and mine's only.
The sexy musky smell left behind,
When ye passed by me, bind
Me — a convict and as a prisoner,
Me did nothing a murder.
Ye art great a mystery of all creation
Designeth by Almighty with innovative imagination.
I’ll sing ye art Worthsword's daffodil,
And thy worth, fall short far by Gates's total bill.
I won't say ye art the Helen of Troy,
For whom was once destroy
The great city by Ulysses.
Nothing was gained — no uses.
Ye art nor Keat's La Belle;
But thee art incarnate of Florence Nightingale,
Nursing every wound of the broken spirit.
Everyday, every hour, Ye repeat
Those angelic ministry with thy tender fingers,
Your healing touch forever lingers.
In this vanity fair, once God's Eden garden,
Waltz and sing with azalea garland.
Bloom, my queen in this garden with sparkling colour
Venturing the beastly cruelties with great valour.
Walk on the clouds like the dancing daffodil,
That sighting ye even Time would stand still.
Everything that breathe risk life to see ye smile
And to listen thy songs, Kings journeyed thousand miles.
Lo! my heart pounds for ye heavily;
Sighting ye bloom among the wild lily,
I want to hide you inside seven veils,
Even cannot be blown away by a mighty gale.
There in that secret place so holy
Things will be jolly.
There ye don't exist.
There I don't exist.
But a singular stranger,
Whose good name is "US".
--- Sarat d. Sanjenbam ---
|