Shines like a nude, savage blonde,
Aroused and overcome by her own restless heat,
Immodest, shameless even:
She is above shame.
Her caresses burn, but tenderly;
Her radiance blinds the eye which adores to excess,
But she is innocent,
The love of her nakedness
And the yearning to share it with all men.
Veils her face with mist and fog.
Her light she does not own; she needs the Sun to provide,
And that which she steals, she weaves into apparitions of ice.
Her elegance lies in concealing,
A pale, dark-haired courtesan
Ever striving to cover the lines that age has
Etched into her proud visage.
None are fonder of music,
And she is, at heart, a dancer.
She gossips, pries into men's secret affairs
Indeed, she knows more than she'll let on.
She flirts with poets and induces wolves to sing.
Wit and play become her speech and dress
But I know
That when she is alone
She sobs and shudders with horror
At the darkness which is drinking her soul.
George Chadderdon © 1995