Did the wind whisper, or was it my own breath
that sighed
at your figure, silhouetted
at a distance?

Why do you just stand there
speechless – as if stabbed by
the moments
that are now gone?

The moments
that left your eyes bleeding for the honour
by surreptituous hands – ragged, ugly and sinful – that seeked its
own heavens in warmth of your being;

The moments
that disrobed you and draped you in shame, disgust
and loathing. The moments
that are gone now, burried in layers of time.

Come, sit by this fountain and wash off the dirt
left behind by those seeking paws. Wet your flesh.
Play. Splash water all around. And giggle in delight,
for your honor is
with fragrance of your own soul.

your honor
is immaculate still; and untouched.
There it is, smiling quietly at you and blooming –
way beyond the reaches
of any probing hands . . .

//Date unknown