A woman’s heart is to me, the cherished stone. I walk from where I sat, to her face, and bury only myself in her tears. They come out from dark eyes as sweet to taste, for she is happy!
Happiness! So alien was the word, whenever I’d writhe in a torment back in my home. I’d spent the summer nights, in the heat, while a heart beat for the torment of an addiction. A substance, or so it was named, and I blew kisses in the direction of that pain, because I knew it was enhanced by love.
She bares her beauty resplendently. This woman of mine bares herself with a heart held outward, and I make myself famous in her touch. I feel the entire world look upon us, with so much envy. They can never know love. No; not them; certainly not the world I know to be dipped in selfishness and a desire for the self.
Our hands embrace; indeed, we have embraced. We have kissed, and we have embraced. We will love; yes, we will love. We will kiss, again, and we will find the moon to be radiant and the sun to be hot.
Above her brow is a strand of hair that I blow away from sight. I see an eyebrow that I, as well, offer a kiss. And I kiss it, and kiss it evenly in distance from her twinkling eye. So much love is in my heart, and my pain has been extinguished from its dancing and ephemeral flame. It was my life, that pain, and I have waved it a farewell.
My beauty, let us dance under stars and under the awing faces. We are the world made perfect. We are the moment made without distance. We are the ones for the other. We are beloved, and musical, and enchanted.
Modern Romanticism 