She dances, possessed by the haughtiness That inhabits the children of pureness. She spreads her locks over her heart, Eglantine and amber, equal in parts. She cries for herself, in a cruel ******, Her tears, flowing daggers in her soul of wax.
What are these insolent games she plays? Teaching her shadows irreverent ways And nurturing a hectic stillness. What voices haunt her murmured boldness? Her lullaby, pillowed by destruction Hummed solely out of her own compassion.
She waves to her cousins, the silver lights, Painters of the robe of the summer nights. She burns ,as them, freckling the darkness With a light, a fragrance, and a caress. She is passion, a witness, a deity Existing, not for light, but for beauty.