Treasure Island

John Lars Zwerenz

(1-5-69 / Kew Gardens, New York, USA)

The Queen


THE QUEEN

I roved among the fields and furrows.
I was tan in the sun of the golden day.
At the end of my trail, at the edge of the meadows,
I found a blue pond, enclosed with hay.

Tall, yellow reeds wavered and swayed,
And fragranced the wafting, summer breeze,
Sailing like honey through the linden trees,
Blessing the courtyard there where I stayed.

Suddenly a queen ascended from the rosy bowers,
In a garment of carmine and glistening white.
Her mane was raven, slender, long and bright,
And her eyes were of a song which poured wine upon the flowers.

Her gaze was one of a statues’: deep, dark and grave.
Her lips were of Elysian woods, soft, red and glossy with scent.
I knelt before her, beneath the fronds, green and redolent.
She stood in silence; through her tresses did lave
Blue, caressing gales, which came from the ocean.
We knew naught but ardor and its every emotion,
And the pond was struck with a gust from above.
She took my hand in hers, and accepted my love;
And as if in a dream,
We passed through a curtain, an ethereal light,
By a silver dream,
Beneath the ascending, starry moon,
White,
Full, round and pale,
Which eclipsed the trees, the courts, the lagoon,
Leaving us to the breezy sea,
As we departed from this weary vale-
To a rapturous height of ecstasy.

~ John Lars Zwerenz

Submitted: Thursday, October 10, 2013
Edited: Friday, October 11, 2013
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