Suddenly, the air knows not how to be silent.
It knows not how to hush with a soft whisper, I myself
have grown tired of the zephyr. My love is a gale.
My love is the fervent gust against a thousand
branches, the hue and cry of the forest
leaves. My love is a storm
and I will not woo you
with a gentle


“The Harpist”

Let me whisper with you.
I did not hear music until
the wind changed pitch
between your lips.
Your fingers, lithe and kind
plucked sound from string,
and I heard
but the notes the air sang as
your lips sustained breath.
How can I repent a love so thick?
it sinks like gold into an endless sea,
its beauty forgotten,
its colour too pure
to be seen
by peasants.



It has come to an end,
the days where you ran your succelent sweetness
through my dry throat and coated my lips with the
moisture of Gaia’s favourite daughter.
Your fruit was ripe and
my tongue was
glistening with the taste of
a woman’s sigh.

I am no longer thirsty.


~ Van Dael

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