Poetry (0.021s) Poetry, prose, essays, comments, poems - International Culture and Literature
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agonia.net 
· Perspectives
Article 
Despre Boierism: manifest si razie
Round Table
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2007-12-13 | | I was sitting on my easy chair doing nothing. Lots of urgent writing works were on my desk, waiting for me amongst piles of books partially open. I was sitting on my easy chair, doing nothing but staring at the large blank canvas on my easel. Suddenly, a strange feeling pushed me to rush to the door. I opened it anxiously and a vision appeared: She was there, about to knock at my door! In an attempt to make the vision clearer, my lips slightly touched her hand, her perfumed hand. A light but most intriguing perfume I could fully appreciate: and it made me realize She was not a vision, She was real! She found her way in; leaving myself astonished by the door. She did not speak, She did not look around, and She did not seem to be a stranger at all. She only noticed the bunch of red roses I always keep in my study, renewing it every single day, waiting for her to come. She smiled at me, and then She looked at the sofa and started undressing. Very very slowly. So slowly I could realize each and every part of the time flowing by, and though I appreciated every single smallest fraction of second, I remember only the final scene. She was laying on my sofa, in the pose I figured out of so many times, her warm and beautiful body wearing only a sophisticated lacey leotard. The black of the semitransparent lace contrasted with the white purity of her skin, her silky hair even sweetened the brown of her eyes. Because her eyes appeared merciless only to those taking just a first and superficial glance. But it was easy for me to look deeper and deeper into her eyes, it was easy for me to look at the very root of her eyes, the deeply hidden one. Deeply hidden for all, but not for me. More frantically than enthusiastically I started filling the large blank canvas on my easel. What was I doing with the canvas I still don’t know, my eyes absorbed by the beauty of the goddess laying on my sofa in a most sensual though chast pose, her secret garden enclosed in the lace and partially concealed by her thigh; her breasts scarcely visible through that precious black net, her breasts that seemed to be only willing to find their way out; her lips that seemed to be soon disclosing; her eyes launching delicate glares; her brown fine hair contributing to transform the war goddess into the most precious angel. Soon, the large canvas was not blank anymore. I took it without looking at it and brought it to her. Still laying, She let me sit by her on the sofa and together we looked at the canvas. There were only faces of her. A number of faces of her. Faces showing all her beauty, her inner beauty, her body’s beauty. My right hand dares to delicately caress her hip, her belly, her navel… the touch gives me a sort of electricity a feeling never felt before… then, only a finger of mine goes up between her breasts, her throat, her chin, her lips, her cheek, her ear… And when my hand sinks in her silky soft hair, She closes her enchanting eyes. But the shining light her eyes were diffusing in the room still remains. It is still there, it seems it will never fade. My lips approach her lips, our breathes delicately mingle up, She invites my lips to disclose her lips. The kiss. She responds to my kiss. The endless kiss. How long did it last? How sweet was it? How unique was it? When did it end I don’t remember. I remember only when She dissolved away, whispering She would soon be back again. Next time you will see me in Lady Godiva’s dress.
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