Nymph of the Valley

Where had I seen you? I know your cloudless face, bleary-eyed forehead. Everything says what I imagined you in my remotest dream and desire. It takes a long while to forget your intrepid looking body and soul, Did God fashion you in his own hand and in his own image. Is God the creator of your soul? Where are you hailing from? I asked you. You remained as if a stormy-petrel is whispering a soul song in your ear. But I got my heart at you when you abruptly melted into your own clouds. In tears and jeers you cheered at your sovereignty. Your sovereignty spoke in many languages. In many words, it became a tome of dignity. You are just an epitome of rude fire and smoky fumes that never burn at the slightest provocation of love or hate. At the end of the tunnel I got you not running behind the stray dogs. What should I name you? Nymph of the valley? The jingle of your body language is still deafening my silence. You are standing at the threshold of my conscience. You are neither singing nor dancing. Your presence makes all the difference as if someday you will kiss some somnambulist on his journey to oblivion. You are right at the corner of my wakefulness when all the birds have left their nests to greet the tomorrow to come.