Her Soulful Blue Eyes

And my mornings are eclipsed by a woman
with soft hair, and deep eyes that sigh.
There’s a dove resting on my shoulder
with a melody that was made to cry.
There’s a needle guarding my evenings
and the pieces of my frosted heart.

“Ay” says my heart.
Be the dart, be the part.
Be the dart of souls in my chart.

And I feel her, I tell her, I see her
with the lightness of love’s warm steam,
among shadows that follow my trace,
sandy footsteps that I’ve never seen.
In the cave where the moon never reaches.
In a fire that projects my life,

“Ay” says my heart,
says my hand, says my waltz.
says your waist beating the rhythm.

She halts, assaults, and vaults and waltz.
Vaults and halts as part of the waltz
that her waist innocently assaults.

There’s a broken cave in my penna
where her light brings life to the view.
There’s the corner where humans start moving,
they have treasured their sight and its skew.
But who has forged chains for bohemians?
Who has lied that joy lacks sweet tears?

“Ay” says my heart.
Do not act, don’t be smart.
Love, sweetheart, doesn’t act from afar.

There’s a hall for infatuated teenagers
who believe there is no afternoon.
They believe narratives of the shadows
from a cave that scarces light from the moon.
And I’ll break my own chains and her sorrows
to reveal the colours of her hair.

“Ay” flicks her hair,
flicks her glare, flicks her flair
and lures me with a waltz to her lair.

She swears, she dares, she cares and scares.
She swears for a bread and dares to pretend
to be scared as a way to care.

And I’ll sing her with my old penna,
in the prairie, a waltz for her thighs.
The rusted chains by my footsteps,
those were folly with a wisdom’s disguise.
And I’ll savour the dew of her freedom
in the corner of her soulful blue eyes.

And I’ll yield my songs to the doves,
they’ll fly up high and free to the skies.
And she’ll lift the moon with her wrist,
while her dancing drops what there is
in the pools of sweetness and sorrows
to which our waltz shyly closes in.

“Ay” says my heart,
says my hand, says my waltz.
says your waist beating the rhythm.

She halts, assaults, and vaults and waltz.
Vaults and halts as part of the waltz
that her waist innocently assaults.