Dreams

To the woman with beauty born in the heavens, but which blesses the earth,
One whose beauty is fully fattened fruit that ripens year-round:
For you, my passion  burns like a pyroclastic conflagration from morning's birth
To night's rest as I wait patiently again for your voice, that mellifluous sound. 

Then like wings of a hummingbird, my heart flutters feverishly when you call my name.
My love for you constantly deepens, testing the limits of anyone's imagination.
Love that either plunges me to the depths of despair or to the heights of fame. 
Love of a beauty unmatched in quality, and in brilliance without imitation. 

And like a hawk on its prey I reach for you and feel for you, but to my dismay
You are only here in my dreams, and dreams are pyrite, not gold. 
There is nothing here but dust and air to grab and pull my way. 
My pallor increases as I release my grip, my heart goes grey and cold.

Aquieta mi herida*, my love, because in your lovely light I want to bask. 
I want to live by the light of your eyes and to gladly do whatever you ask. 

To Thumper,
08/23/2017


*Heal my wound (Spanish)