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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