Un poema por una musa desconocida

Dulce lilly, where had you been hiding? In which forgotten melody of the amorous musician; behind which verse of the drunken poet?

Little lilly, sing the summer of your living elegy, paint my day with the colours of your eyes and let me know : what sunrise fed you, which red full moon painted your lips with wine, which carpenter carved your hair of ebony?

I stay awake on the brink of your lips, I dance with your shadows that you leave behind in the dawn of your youth. Trying to describe you, trying to make a poem that reflects your image on paper. Making love with words from any tongue that humans can possibly invent, wrestling with verses and phrases; in vain. But you too are made of earth....

You escape from the words, you untie the bonds I try to set on your form. You dive into the river of verses that lie under your feet and you emerge as another embodiment of my agony. No pencil could render you into short traces of graphite, whether into letters or lines that try to imitate your face. No sounds, aromas or screams could ever reconstruct what a man, a woman and their love put together that night on the shore of lake Desire