The Dream: part II of the ballit

In soft of night, he wakes; gently roused from slumber
By visons which, like scented mist rise, and curl,
Like hair that is by lover’s touch caressed.

The magician bard stirs in velvet dark, naked, smiling;
His eyes part the curtain, star-pierced, the sky,
Becomes a pathway for his thoughts.

His thoughts soft whispers then become; yet unheard
Except by she, who languid in the scented night
Waits for that she knows is yet to be revealed

The playful one – this bard who keeps an ancient truth –
Stirs in his bed and with breath as gentle and as sharp
Her languid breast he teases into wakening

And though in truth so far from him, she feels his touch;
Nipples rise in union with his playful lust,
And then her toes his magic seeks.

Soft, soft, she feels him, stroking fingers drawing sounds
From within her very being; her heart begins to sing,
The paean of women through the ages

Soft at first, and faint, the murmured cadence, but then,
His fingers quicken, take melody from calf and thigh,
Her cunny, in all its scented beauty, sighs

And there in her sacred bower, the little Goddess stirs,
Lily-like she rises, peeking coyly from within,
Wicked fingers cease, he whispers…”Soon”

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