A weaver wrought the sun’s domain,
Within her breast, a furnace bright,
Her hands, like lilies, held the rein,
Of light, that danced in endless night.
The earth, a drum, beneath her tread,
Throbbed primal hymns, of fire and seed,
Volcanoes whispered, shadows fled,
As slumber’s veil her vision veiled.
Nostrils, like rosebuds, drank the air,
Heavy with dreams, the night’s perfume,
Her eyelids drooped, a silent prayer,
On silk, where shadows gently bloom.
Now, hush descends, a wound made whole,
Where void’s cold breath surrenders slow,
It opens, closes, on the soul,
Of Noah, seeker, sailing low.
Through starry seas, his spirit glides,
On whispers of the woman’s sun,
A tapestry of cosmos, spun,
By hands that wrought what light begun.
:: 12.14.2023 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 