Who are you who make your way in the endless lines? You, Two-Six-Nine-Five-Three, You, the Flower of Jewry proud, erect, your denuded skull that once flowed rich black with hair that tumbled fountain-like around a slender neck of ivory cascading onto shoulders to fall divided gliding down over breasts and back.
What noble forehead I see above dark pools wherein burn radiant eyes, your soft sunken temples, the slope of your regal nose. Those lips, lightly pursed above a chin held aloft, borne with that silent certainty of being loved already by one yet unknown to you, but whose presence now felt propels your dauntless search.
Your every movement graced, your feathered step, your groping hands gliding those fingers loosely stretched that have yet to caress an new born babe or cushion a lover's head from loving spent.
On what hidden tether are you being drawn to him who has come here searching for you among the fair, for you, his longed for love.
You are his Winter Rose, You are his Rising Sun You are his Evening Star, You are his House of Gold.
He has looked for you in every bower sought out the lions' lairs, no latch undone, no hinge unswung until he ventured through these gates, searching for you in one last despairing quest.
Was it not his nearness that awakened you before dawn set you on this path in darkness seeking out his lodging place?
Done with watching, longing, done with endless dialogue alone done with patience, pining, waiting. You move, irresistibly drawn to juncture, fullness, oneness, where waiting ceases where union quenches thirst.
All your visions clung to nights through, all anticipation that has long beaten at your love-sick heart crave for fulfillment, a bringing out that you know now will soon be come about.
Is that his voice you hear, your head lowered now your eyes straining as you rush in his direction? Are you about to enter upon a banquet prepared? Do you see yourself reclining in fruits from his trees, cushioned in down, gazing at swirling columns of incense rising as you await his first light touch?
He must see you coming now, you, so intent, in his direction. Stands he there behind some board, some cleft in a wall? Hear you his words already? Is he proffering a time, a tryst, a place? Or is it a room, a loft, a nest— like orioles make, a flaxen purse hanging deep in foliage hidden where union takes place?
Are you asking if he knows of your longing, if his will meld with yours in folds of awareness so hermetic as to envelop you in one endless ritual of giving and yielding? Ah—this questioning but distracts from your final rush to him into whose presence you are entering.
Go, lift your beauty to him. All convention, all words, all thought recede now. There is no fetter. You are beyond licence, sanction, law. All is assent, oneness, accord.
You are running now, taking to the wing, gently, lightly.
But he, too, is in motion nearing, so near about to catch you up, sidelong, longing, to envelop you in the heat of his embrace.