In the pomegranate grove
I recognised your face;
in the attar of untimely bliss
my eyes caressed your lips.
Our cheeks rested
against each other,
butterfly to petal;
eyelash ensnared eyelash;
for an instant,
an eternity,
time turned blind eyes
and checked the granules
flowing through the hourglass,
but then the sand
ran faster
to make up for this
anomaly.
I don't know
if your mouth was laced
with aftertaste of pears.
I couldn't tell:
my lips did not
touch yours.
But in the pomegranate
groves of Hades,
if we chance to meet,
we shall not be strangers,
I believe.
Eros fugit
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111100606516
Свидетельство о публикации №111100606516
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