Lucinda, Lucinda, your presence is winter.
Do you feel my fingers shiver and quiver?
My goodness, red spots
and jots of blood leave nothing but pots
of dreams and desires I have for our love.
You see, my Lucinda, they say,
"don't use that tinder, you'll burn yourself."
Keep your turn to yourself; if you have to delve
then delve into thee;
find your true red for me.
I remember, the sitting -- oh that faithful sitting -- before the sea.
No snow in December, only destruction and pestering
Christmas gifts from kins and kiths, yet
I only want your deer, to ride--
I only wish to feel your light.
Yes, you're hurt, burnt by the time
this world was burned and churned by
the hand of demons,
the clan of devils and lucifers--
you're fallen, but on heaven's bed, you'll be golden.
My bosom has declared -- a promise it shall be!
From this day forward, the pain from the man is zilch.
The eaves you'll forget,
derogate that pointless regret
and let me warm you in the snow of winter.
YOU ARE READING
Mahal-lika!
PoetryIs love just a a collection of feelings for one? Is it just a sweet section of chocolate for one? Hearken! My heart beats faster, the box shakes stronger -- Mahal-lika! Let us tell their stories of love divine, their love full of sin!
