Dama of His Nights

 

She wakes me, then she vanishes.

But the scent of a thousand other flowers

seems to harmonize to annoy me

as it lingers in the four walls of this room.

 

 

She wakes me up, again,

as the fragrance of those noble women.

It’s the scent that wakes the conscience.

Before, I am the sun that suppressed her from

Continually giving her charm.

 

She’s asleep; I wake up and left her.

She attends me well and should have stayed with her.

My smell betrays me,

perhaps the sheet she washes that covers my bed,

makes me remember the nights

when she showered me with perfume of love

despite her awareness of my infidelity, but it’s not the sheets.

 

My wife now keeps me sleepless.

My wife, or

You, who granted her this charm, forgive me!

Deprive me my sense of smell,

or even just the scent of that flower

in the midst of this room

that haunts my conscience every night.

 

Tags: dama de noche, mythopoem, poetry, shyne, the dama of his nights