Memoir of a Mistress

Cristina de Guzman

Centuries of sundown mourned,
yet Manoah's loss was still a victory 
for his tribe, set apart for light
from the impure warmth of unredeemed.

Upon his tongue lied the sweetest lie,
which tied her liberty to kiss and tell
the innocence that once conceived by
his younger days of abstinence.

Riddles and scribbles out of honey and bones
paved a destiny to his virgin braids.
Remember those knives on those papyrus
he needless to utter, for it were written long ago.

Old  tribe sent arrows to her back,
reminding her of spoiled blood in lion's claws
that invaded the depth of his  blameless soul
where the truth was hidden for centuries.

Hopes still cling to the twosome pillars 
that broke her faith in his impeccable strength.
Stains on his mighty linear limbs
still haunt the remnants of her sanity.

The world has pierced her on the vineyard's earth
where past spat his royal blood,
that slowly turned into enticing green
once blown soft whispers upon in dawn.

Thou shall not blame her for Zorah's grief,
if his bones were crushed to a soiled carcass.
Caresses laid him to the depth of slumber
but her sinful hands did not cut his braids.