The poet does not love you for your changing beauty, a leaf that shivers in the wind
The poet does not love you for your changing beauty, a leaf that shivers in the wind,
But for how the sun plays on the curve of your cheek, a subtle mirror of light and earth.
For those hidden creases in your smile, deserted paths where footsteps wander,
For the secret hues carried on the tips of your fingers, where colors come to rest.
He will fall under the spell of the exact shape of your lips uttering his name in an echo,
For the rich colors in your eyes, for how the light in them reflects and becomes a river,
How shadows embrace your body, crafting in contours, a temple of mystery.
For the poet will find you in the crevices of silence, where your word does not take flight,
He will take your heart and stain it with the rhythms you carry in your chest, wordlessly, without longing.
He will uncover your hidden beauties, a hundred small miracles that defy death,
And he will immortalize you among verses, will make your name undying on the dawn's emerging lip.
He will not be the one to break your heart, for no poet is without scar, without bitterness,
He did not come to twist words into crowns of gold without having borne a heavy burden himself.
He will love you beyond every nothingness, for he knows all too well how to treasure each ephemeral flicker,
In his poetry you are eternal, and even if the world forgets, the poet always remembers to love you.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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