I now whisper a verse, like a curtain of shooting stars

I now whisper a verse, like a curtain of shooting stars, Weaving with a rhyme, an echo from worlds locked in the distance afar. To clasp your treasure, your sublime feminine essence, Through rosewood forests, and your skin, fine vanilla parchment. May I be the sacred word that reverberates in your night, You, the ancient poem, pulsing through me, in this plane alight. Let your gentle breast rest in my adoring palm, both comfort and blaze, Quench my thirst at your secret spring, where longing is an ocean, not a mere phase. I would draw you in the vast sea, the architect of your wave’s span, From their blessed foam, the birth of angels on opal sand. On lips, life’s oases would bloom, quenching the thirst of the neglected quest, And in your night's crown of curls, the starlight to rest, without need of rest. Your autumn's turmoil I forget, its ancient fire, and transient fir, The dancing leaf in the wind, the dizzy effluence of its stained glass to stir. I'd submerge you in the cherry blossom, in a mirage of delicate porcelain, A fabric of your sheer dreams, tender as a fairy's grin. To traverse your broad meadow and enrich my palace with its girth, Dress the nights of time in the paradise that ensnares me on this earth, Here even the mistake transforms into warmly heralded talk, And together we'd burst into absolute sin, where sacred and profane in ecstasy are wrapped in an endless walk.