Nostalgia

I woke up on a rain washed grey morn
To wish ‘bonjour tristesse’,
To my utter surprise, a yellow glow worm
Impatient in my bosom, crept on a fresh page of the diary.

Pink was I then, renée from a forgettable affair,
The glow worm reaped the nugget of the heart
And some interstellar words were born
Unknown, almost strangers to banal life.

Innumerable hours, numerous moments and some ineffaceable memoirs
Have passed since then;
Some words are still born, some words, sardonic and cynical.
The yellow is all sallow,
The pink remains, yet the source is different,
So does the page…although the worm has suddenly disappeared
In the twilight of the memory.

-The Shepherdess

Love

She used to sit on that park bench
Under the purple colored cherry tree
And when the zephyrs smiled at her,
Her hair smelled of perfumed petals.

She used to have a special liking for saraband;
With her slow steps danced the edge of her red petticoat.
The winking champagne in her hand
Sent bevy of bubbles to kiss her virgin lips.

Necropolis is her new abode.
She has an ocassional liking for sarcophagus;
Who can tell salad days won't resurrect again?
Only to fall asleep by lullabies of the tears of the moon.

-The Shepherdess.

(painting-paul gauguin-the loss of virginity)

Les Mots du Mal

Will you love me if I come without words,

will you caress me if speech is stripped from me?

will you rever me still, if the alphabets evade me all of a sudden,

will I be transported to your amnesia if i transform into a white piece of paper?

-the Shepherdess

Dont think of me except when you are sad
Dont think of me except when you are going to someone's house you do not love
Let fate have her way
And move us apart
Whom time could not join
No place on earth shall
Have place enough to suffise two hearts to meet
Caro, there was simply not enough love.
Lets not blame each other
Whats over...
Is over
(Bittersweet fruit of an indian summer}
Let the rains come, I wait for one
Who is yet to come, my heart is a prisonnier

~~the wolf

wolfie the poetie....or lust's labour lost

Dont try to hold me
dont try to catch me
My heart is a prisonnier
Of one who is yet to be born
Pure as snow
cold as ice
take the sickle
cut through the winter earth
and make the blood flow in pools of joy
all art is a promise
all love is a lie
I am a prisonnier (sigh)
of one who is yet to come
so i shall wait
come to me
come to me if you can love me
(for you must love me perfectly
or not at all)
Love is an art, and like all other arts
It is a myth
I dont believe in love
So I shall be a dream on a summer's day
and your nightmare in the moonlit night

~~the wolf