The water cascades lightly
off her lustrous amber skin
which glistens bare
beneath the crescent moon,
so soft and sweet and made to love
on pillows plump with down.
The owls and night-birds
sing an ancient song
and hunt amidst the tropic green,
then pause beside her fragile form
and see within her eyes
the keys of time.
Forbidden thoughts
are locked inside her soul
which smells of jasmine incense in the wind.
She is alone among the trees
and seen by none,
save owls and night-birds
gliding on the warm night breeze.
Within this tropic shore she glides,
among the star-soaked trees,
where eyes the shade of coal stop time,
where dreams and fantasy refine
a nectar sweet,
a joy divine.
She hoists her chalice,
drinks this wine,
submits to pleasure quite sublime,
while nights forever pass along
and night-birds sing their ancient song.