His hands touch me
Like ice, like fire, one and the same…
They linger on ripe valleys,
Virgin Plains…
His eyes touch me
In a way that steals pieces of me,
Bits and pieces of me,
They are lost still.
His mouth touches me
There, in the valley…
There amongst the hills,
Drifting lower…
Murmuring against the Virgin Plains…
How beautiful! How enchanting…
Such a beautiful little girl,
So sweet.
And those pieces, they are lost--
Will they ever be found again?
Will they come to me if I call?
Will they flow back into my being
And make me whole?
And who will understand the mix
Of pleasure and pain, love and hate,
Reverence and disgust?
Who will protect me now?
The answer is always the same…
No one…there is no one for you,
None who could understand…
None who could bring back those pieces that are lost.
Fragments of love and hate still remain.
