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Who are your really? The man I know, and yet a stranger be. The enigma with the voice like thick, slow-moving treacle That sends a shiver down my spine. The faceless voice that temp me so, Who invites my confidences with ease Who shares my secrets - Be they dark, or silly or utterly earthy and deeply erotic. I do so wish I knew the man behind the voice that drives me wild. I often think of things to ask or say, but then you speak... And your voice sends a primeval vibration through my bones And all coherent though flies from my mind And I change from a logical and sane human being Into a wanton, wild-haired witch Whose blood throbs with a sluggish and sensual beat I have never met a man like you Who has the ability - with his words alone To make me feel so special And so beautiful And totally wicked and wild! You never put any pressure on me And never ask more of me, Than what I give you gladly And totally of my own free will And it is probably this very simply fact That gives you the ability to play me like a violin And make my body produce such sweet music Like the rarest Stradivarius You are like a fever in my blood - you make me burn and ache Where-from comes this gift of wizardry To mesmerise me with such ease? You make me smile You make me laugh You make my mind fly high and free And my body opens up for you with wild abandonment You drive the drums of Africa to a total frenzy in my blood No man before has called forth this utter earthy part of me You weave your spell and envelop me In a cloak of unadulterated sensuality Until my body grows heavy and feels so ripe And I become as primordial as a being From the dawn of time Until I drown in pleasure too fierce to be borne And with head thrown back in ecstasy - There tears from my throat a shriek Reminiscent of a banshee in the wild... You smile when I call you the Master Gardener... But that is truly what you are For no bumbling fool could ever have the wit or resourcefulness To make the rose withhold her thorny barbs And allow you to touch her without a scratch And only the deft hand of the Master's hand Will make the rose open her moist core to him With such uninhibited abandonment and joy The only sorrow for the rose will be - Her mourning of the loss of the Master's touch When he visits the garden no more... For intolerant will be the fumbling of the fool Who would dare to follow where the Master has already been And the price for his ineptness will surely be To face the fury and wrath Of the spiked barbs of the disillusioned rose... Naomi von Niewoldt June 2001 |
