The Maiden and The Raven
By Oscar S. Cisneros
Pallid is her face and yet she's somehow dark complected.
Alive she seems uplifted like a saddened angel resurrected.
She's wrapped inside the fabrics of white silk from spiders' webs.
A living breathing woman reminiscent of the dead.
From the shadows I do spy the sweetness in her eyes.
The glassy proof of innocence; her tears do not speak lies.
She sheds them when she feels overwrought by nature's splendor.
Delicacy she sees, in her raven, her defender.
Black as she is white. The inverted mirror of her complexion.
Honor guides his flight. He sees himself in the reflection
Of her pure and loving eyes and for a moment time is still.
A maiden in a castle, a raven at the sill.
It's over as it begins. The blackbird flies away.
But the story of this fable will live another day.
For love is never quenched when its taste is but a sip.
And longs to be fulfilled by the touch of fingertips
Or a feather's brush upon the face.
Or the feel of skin on lace.
These memories will live on with the maiden and the raven.
