The Drawing

I will draw her beauty

And what is inside too

When I touch the paper I close my eyes

And think of my fingers

Slowly touching her

I grasp my pencil

As if to caress it..

And drift it across the surface

I want to see her in that perfect

Moment.. when

The steam

Rising around her

Laying draped on the tiles

Like some oriental, languorous woman

As if I have stolen into the harem

I want to describe for all the world to see

For her to see, or perhaps be

For me

The look in her eyes..

But how to transcribe what lays behind ?

Those unanswered questions

That we sought only to glean

Trepidations that have blossomed

With her passion..

Can we really ever stay there ?

Or do we just have to remember ?

The slow soft touch

Half opened

…looks

Or the wet urgency of our hopelessness

I wish the masters could see

And then create there final

Work

My fantasy

The lover holding her..

In his ever leaving arms..

Like the sunset

We can never describe,

Or the words that we have inside our head

That fear the paper..

And then.. I open my eyes..

How can I draw these things ?

As I look to the virgin picture

Like an afterglow in my eyes.. the image

Slowly fades…

And I know I will have to find inside

Of my heart.. in the soul of my ancestors

the strength

To try.. and caress this page