Publicado: 16 junio, 2009 en Litera-turas
Poema de Deborah Cross

And as from a dream awakened
she collapsed into the slumber of the seraphim
where with their tears they washed the shame
and degradation of the spilled seeds that as weeping did swim.
After the spirits bathed her
and caressed away any memory of the loveless shine
he had left to mock her hopeful lips
god whispered thru the wind into her ears "You are still mine".
He helped her rebuild
as any Father, good and true,
and from her misinterpertation of conquest as love
he her broken heart renewed.
For of course the warrier had left her
not even as a slave now would she do
for, without love, any conquests willing end
must as with disdain be seen, and the flee ensue.
Oh innocent maidens, hear this sad truth
and those who cast themselves to thieves as well
the warrier a prince is not
despite all hopes that in a womans soul dwell.
To fight not against the conquer of the flesh
indeed to welcome, invite and lie of that pleasure void of love
is to trap your heart in a box sealed on all four sides
and to deafen your ears to it’s cooings, softer than that of a dove.
And to those men who in fun and games
claim precious trophies to then desecrate their grace
and soothe their trifling heart with imaginings
that it is pleasure they see on that wanton face.
Know this, from the heart of a whore
that in all the pretendings and trappings
all the begging, the clinging, the giving
of all, the seductions, the tricking, the lying, practiced eyes
that absolve and flicker with gratitude and false satisfaction
for the scraps of attention that of a feast unknown
allow pretense of at least a taste
know that as some men will burn and discard
in the name of pleasure, fun and lore
I don’t believe there ever was a wee girl born
who didn’t dream of, and grow to even discard herself
in the hopes of finding love’s true joy, not pleasure, not false bliss
but that which lasts from this life to the next
that for which there is no word, except perhaps ardor.


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