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.
