Cxxi Poem by Mary Ali
Cxxi
A flame of gold
She was
Beneath my finger tips.
Skin richer than velvet
Softer than watered silk.
Her words;
The breeze that blows from Elysium,
Her taste sweet,
But yet sour;
Like life,
Mother Nature herself.
Every sweet thing has a bitter end.
The flame died,
You pulled away from me
You hid away in your sacred garments
And went back to reside in the temple of pretence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/4/2024 12:31:55 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Nice poem, Mary, but as you said ' Every sweet thing has a bitter end'. She was certainly insincere in displaying her affection. Though a peaceful tragedy should be understood as nature's play and correlated with the facts of life. Best Wishes Naseer