She was elevated to the grandest of the thrones and the pious royal would sin for her forgiveness. Her skin, like radium, masked the scented shade of elegance. She was poisonous too, maybe. The common folk would talk about her, ages with nary a rest, mostly about her immortal honor and her filthy yet appealing pulchritudinous. The saintly echoes about her would stun.
She bore justice to the words, though; the words of the preachers in distant lands who so passionately sang joyous hymns in the wake of her innocence. She bore justice to the words of the guilty judges who dare condemn her and pass righteous judgment in her omnipresence.
She bore justice to the words of the lost strangers who murmured her stories and poets who hopelessly blotted legions of all that exists in her praise.
The romanticists claimed her to be an epiphany of love whereas the rebels plotted to capture her scent. But, like the morning rain she was soft and free.
She was worth a brief decade, a night perhaps. She could’ve been the finest bottle of rum for, in her wait, pirates struggled with such treacherous senses which wouldn’t let them beg or slaughter. She would rise to the occasion every single time and prophets could see their prophecies come true. Her eyes, like a lucent sun trapped in biblical prisons, stun.
Yes, they were intruded. Yes, they were fascinated. It was only obvious. And so, they waited for her, guilty of impure thoughts; guilty of inadequate and vale efforts. The painters would not find colors to paint what lied beneath her enigmatic crust, for like leaves in a bowl of tea, she brewed desperately only to be reborn with an even darker shade of love.
Shall I compare her to the morning dew when she’s drenched or the perfectly ruined masterpiece, when she cries?
Shall I urge the skies to burn with envy when she dances beneath their chest on unscathed snow?
I ask for her story, her name at least. I wait for her lips to move with words of forgiveness and sentiments.
“Sail away, you curious lover; sail away. There must be a horizon where wiser men dwell. Sail away to the upward seas and the frozen green mountains,” she says.
She still breathes in her loneliness, and once every fortnight she walks on the golden aisle with a red carpet. She reveals her coveted burns to blind men like us and as she surrenders to endless staring, be embarrassed. Her silent gaze stuns, too.
Remember, oh old friend, the god is a she.