Poetry

Many memories still remain with me
of your white house with the wooden windows,
where irises bloom purple in the garden,
with a bottle of St. Anna on the porch,

the fireplace burning cheerfully in winter,
the stars that glitter silver-blue above us,
the branches of the avocado tree slamming
when the wind blows strong up on the mountain,

your deep glance that desires in silence,
the way that you sometimes happily smile
when being together comes to perfection,
when your red lips are soft, hot and hungry,

when we both build a castle brick for brick,
are together in all our future dreams;
where you sing joyfully, paint and write poems,
where every caress is pure and holy,

where there is no goodbye and just hello,
where all the fragile feelings become real,
where morning glories grow exuberant
and we somewhat innocent believe in love

l’Envoi

but this world is full of a own reality,
as a place of cruel hard actuality;
where destiny continually hits on its own,
where I constantly stand totally alone

where dreams flutter away like butterflies,
where morning glories becomes just a weed,
where many thousands of poems come from me,
where in the sounds of silence I bleed.

[Reference: “Ons wat glo in fantasie” (We that believe in fantasy) by Mandi Engelbrecht.]