Beloved Poem by Germina Melius

My love, thou art beautiful, a rose on my chest, a whisper in my ear. Thine eyes arouse my heart and consume my mind and sleep. I dread the silent nights because thou art far, like a stranger wandering through the city.
Thy lips tempt me, like peaches when flowers bloom, with sweet scents of perfume.
I am hypnotised, speechless like a statue, and fear myself like an illness.
Thou art a goddess, powerful like the wind―
a buried treasure like my feelings for thee.
Thy skin reminds me of olive oil and honey.
Thou art an angel, a blessing, my sweet comfort ― the only one for me, who gives me pleasure and the sweetest dream, which intrigues my heart,
and lures my mind to secret places, reserved for me and thee.
Like a cool evening breeze, I drift away with thee at my side, like a shadow of love, my life's embrace, my romantic desires,
who makes me wonder about passion, lies, my neighbour's love for thee, and thy faithfulness to me.
I question myself, thinking of thee.
Am I wasting time like a fool waiting for thee, to greet me with thy smile, thy sweet embrace, and thy lovely countenance?
My troubled mind thinks of thee in the arms of another ― my adversary.
Am I just a hopeless peasant, a gardener neglected by your love who yearns for thee?
I want thee like the hair on my head,
and my garments which protect my nakedness,
like rain in a drought and spring in December.
I am poor, a lost soul in the desert of your heart,
tormented by the scorching heat of your abandonment.
Precious art thou, like an emerald in the sky and a diamond in my heart, a light in the darkness surrounding me, a flower so delicate like a newborn, a distraction which leads men to insanity, to lust and wanting thee, like a treasure of a sunken ship, suddenly afloat on the sea.
I desire thee, a refuge for me, a weary man in great lamentation.
I yearn for thee like unconditional love from my mother, and good advice from my father.
I am blessed by God and man but you'll never know for your heart is conceited.
Every day, I love thee more my princess but still, thou await thy prince, thy betrothed.
How pitiful; I am neither, but a peasant, a fool for thy love, an old friend, dying for thee each day.
I love thee; thou art a memory in my soul.

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