An alluring pale nymph — in the water, 

Covered by lilies;

Her skin — as chaste and tart as porcelain,

And as sharp as a field of blades. 


Drowned — her delicate movements — a baile;

The lilies, her suitors.

The water — the tomb of a pettled soul:

Aching — drained — like rotting flowers. 


A ripple — a crescent spark — a sudden twitch, 

The dew on her soul, cracked.

Two grapevines — an offering — lifting up,

Shaking pond, the nymph emerged. 


Credit: Claude Monet “Nymphéas Bleus.”

The moonlight’s embrace — her shackles, broken,

Her lungs, baptised with air.

The lilies, scattered — her own flowers bloom, 

Revealing her heart — vibrant and rare.

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