the Pilgrimage - (a so called poem)

The Pilgrimage


He loves only her he wonders why
She loves many things which she identifies as beauty
Although,she loves one thing she sees in the mirror the most,the reflection of her own
The skin so fair yet so soft, the rosy coulds on her cheeks sweep away the raw innocence
Her sex appeal is natural born - half opened lips seem that they have their own ability to speak
Her body is like a vigorous waterlily in the rain when she showers
He'd wish the water drops were his hands, his tongue, his soul
He'd imagine she was somebody else's bride that rest on his bed
Her eyes are babies, everytime she awakes them to see him with a lazy smile
He'd think he is always the first thing she knows and remembers on this lonely planet
Put his hands on the small of her back, hesitates to slide down
He enforces his breath to steal Shakspare's dream, wear the golde mask of Romeo
She murmurs without largely moving her gentle lips which tease his stoned hand

" Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. "

He finds his hands profane against her tenderness of this pinky flesh
There is a fine line between desire and being holy he dares not cross over
He strenghtens his voice, swallows the trembles in his breath

" Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earthÁ and find you centre out."

She finally smiles without grudge,brings her face one inch closer to his
There is no pilgrims kiss, nor lips touch, she awaits
His eyes come to watery. How can this tiny weak body has such huge power over me?
He ponders, forgot to process his pilgrimage
Suddenly, she places her head upon his shoulder and whispers to his ears:

" I have two legs, the left one carries me in the mud of the worldly space, the right one walks me to where I call home. Which one is closer to my heart ? "

He can't hold his breath, the air flirts with her dark hair of full dreamy scents

" I have two breasts. One is for you, one is for breeding my son. Which one belongs to me? "

He presses his chest so hard to feel her pounding heart which tuens out to be silent as it's asleep in its own dream

" I have one heart. Half is for my body. Another half is for my soul. Which belongs to you? "

They join each other after the wasted pilgrimage, Deep and endlessly wanting. They make it as if it is the last lovemaking before their death. The waves of the ocean of their clays mingle with fire. For this moment, He believes she is his bride . Only His. His pleasure of both body and soul culminate by thinking of this, thinking of the girl who is now a part of his. She falls asleep like a tired kid, rests in his arms like a lonesome leaf . He closes his eyes instead of staring at her, slightly moves his arms to feel she is still there as his own flesh

He falls alseep with his last whispers to the unanswered questions she placed

" Your right leg is closer to your heart. Home is where heart is."

A tear drop appears at the cornor of his eyes...

" Both of them belong to you. Me and my son. "

The tear drop stays on his cheek...

" ... Ain't your heart mine? "

The tear drop drips from his lips and falls upon hers...