Page 11 - book 1-1

mahogany dreams for an impossible love

absorbed from the gray hustle

I lack the vital spirit,
while through the stained-glass windows

of a colorful heart glimpse your brunette complexion

wandering through the battlements

of a wall of ice in a silence
cutting me as a steel blade of Seville...

quartered in a narrow niche
on the corner of a keep

I return to the antechamber looking

to the dark mahogany desk
where rests the enameled silver seal,

a pencil of sealing wax and a parchment...

concentrate to write a missive
as a weak apprentice, in a circumspect reverie

about your brown eyes, a preamble

of adventures worthy of an odyssey,
in an exhausted search for a cove

that would mitigate the verdict of a

courteous love predestined only to fill

melodies of minstrels...