By Sophie Rouméas
Painting by Giorgio Dante, Poi Tornò All’ Eterna Fonte, 2021
The fragrance of my lover—
embedded in my memory.
An unspeakable presence,
this imprint on soul mystery.
My mind roams
then murmurs,
surrender to serendipity.
I surrender,
come what may.
A color—a carmine red
that throbs—activates.
I recognize the feeling
of Her infusing me.
But who is She?
She who invites herself
into any room of consciousness?
She is
the vibration in his voice
as he speaks his sentiments,
reverberating
through the wooden bench
as a harp song in my cells.
She's the fire in his eyes
when he greets me with desire,
She is that pearl drop of water
in the morning, after a rain,
that sparkles with filaments
on the leaves of a white rose.
She is the grace of reason
when words dance together.
She crowns—with her passion
the one who tames her—with patience.
She was said to be cursed,
deemed unfit for wisdom.
She is banished from such houses
and praised in such temples.
Pure under prisms,
a friend to painters and poets,
she is everywhere, an artist
birthing her canvas for eternity.
She can be learned,
even unlearned,
depending on whether you want
to reinvent yourself.
Don't get me wrong,
She will always be rebellious.
Breathe her in, she inspires you.
Forget her, she fades away.
The usefulness you find in her
depends only on your presence
to let your senses be opened
to let her transcend you at all.
She is the whisper of your dreams
unveiling the audacious you.
She is the seed of your ideas
to manifest your vocation.
An indomitable spirit
of life, matter and emotions,
She arises from a naturalness.
She is She, He, and Plural.
She conjugates all the time.
Be observant, be patient,
invite your guest:
Sensuality is at your door.
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