Enilar, dear Enilar, what you are—
in my space a star or in my flesh a scar
for my rot a cure or for my lot a lure
but why, why I'm feeling sure
that you as a pollen are pure
of a fragrant purple flower
wherein no butterfly yet belongs
when those sly swarms have longed
to give you a kiss for dower,
but my, my, I'm feeling so sure
that all over the low azure
no butterfly of any form has
the bliss I'd do for you, O Enilar Hahs
Enilar, dear Enilar, with you could I
mold the love and the lust in one frame
hold the spirit and the flesh in one esteem
fold the eagerness and the averseness in one seam;
you attract and repel in one flame
you're warm and cold in one steam
you're real and illusory in my dream
you're the thinkable and the incredible of my scheme
you're both near and distant in my eyes
YOU ARE READING
Ralinsha
Non-FictionIt started on the eleventh day of the third moon, the day before my thirty-eighth sun, this year. Having seen her on the box days or weeks earlier, it occured to me that particular day to write a poem about her, not knowing whence and how the fancy...
