There
is very little to enliven the evening
Except for a remote possibility
to light up the greying floor.
With trembling hands, she takes
the waxen doll – the white body -- off the shelf
And steps into the bedroom.
The doll,
with her usual niceties, suits the place.
She places it on the milk-white divan.
The yellowish lamp -- understated,
The unknown fragrance, the sculpted figurehead...
all
seem to forget the previous failures!
She touches the pinkish eyelids
with her brown fingertips, and
It appears to be shy to the whitish glory!
The finger goes downward...
tender neck, measured pinnacles,
a strip of lustrous brown hair covering the naked sin... the white lie…
smooth,
submissive — all waxen!
Two smooth hands — illusive!
As if the sky is still alive and so are the wings!
The
hand strikes her wrist
mechanically
against the white; it’s quite hard to pile up
the dirty proofs of a smashed doll...
the phantom of an empty desire!
She
looks at herself through the mirror.
The yellowish lamp cannot smoothen
her not-so-feminine eyes!
But
the light suits this contour!
She sees hundred butterflies
leaving her balcony
as the darkness descends!
She cleans up the railing
with her tough muscles nodding…the white relics…
And
She lights up the candles.