A sultry wind surges o'er the Mediterranean.
Rosy fingered dawn wakes the world,
As I habitually walk the lonely path to labor.
A melancholy song sounds from the barley field.
Hypnotized, I follow through undulating grain,
Which lithely tosses back and forth in dance.
‘Neath a willow, amongst the barley, sits a girl,
Garbed in a white tunic, playing her angelic harp.
Her hazel hair weightlessly sways in the wind.
Her olive toned fingers pluck with mastery.
Nobility marks her solemn dark brows,
That sit atop commanding, umber eyes.
The harp's supple bends are a tribute
To the lady's long limber figure,
As she directs wind and waves by ballad.
She looks up from her earthen dais,
Eyes aglow with a playful, sultry look.
Pierced by her gaze, I awake...
With her, my wife, beside me.