As I gazed at the violet up ahead, I scolded:
Oh, sneaky thief, where did you steal the sweet dew from?
Was it not from the gentle breath of my beloved?
The regal shade that blushes on your cheek,
I know it was crudely stained by my lover’s veins, so true.
Because of your touch, I condemned the beautiful lily,
And took the buds of marjoram from your hair.
The roses, trembling on their thorny bed, in despair,
One blushed with shame, one turned pale with distress.
A third, neither red nor pure white, dared
To steal from both colors and claim your breath, a thieving guest.
But for its theft, a cankerworm, proudly aware,
Devoured its growth, consumed in miserable unrest.
I observed more flowers, yet not a single one
Escaped your thieving of fragrance and color, my beloved.
:: 07.02.2023 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 