Ode To Datura

Sweet scent is blasting through trumpet flowers,
the narcotic breath of beauty and bane.
From Shiva's chest they sprang, pale faces rose.
Krîm Krîm Krîm - magical power demesne.

I stroll slowly through the moonlit garden.
Her voice is calling, beckoning - eterne.
Sphinx moths drink her spirituous nectar -
hummingbirds hovering to win their turn.

O! Sacred visions! They open their eyes,
poised in the liquid silver-whitish light;
and eccentric colors and fragrances
erupt in the air of Datura's night.

Proportions and densities never known
are pronounced on chameleon comets.
Palmful of pleasure, a whirlwind of bliss,
a gambol of glee through gleaming grommets.

The petals turn to mauve and magenta.
A phoenix rises and flies off the sky.
It's neither illusion nor delusion.
It's the bud on the stem behind the eye.

My body is burning; my mind turning.
I am a lotus of lusty perfume.
I camber on the cloud of a carpet -
a shower of electrum in the bloom.

Ecstasy of the soul! A cry of love!
His exquisite skin is a mystery.
He is flame of fire, the salt of the earth,
the winds of heaven, the tides of the sea.

The black velvet of his hair in my hands,
as I kiss him beneath the fragrant tree.
Heaven-on-earth is embodied complete.
His lamp of love is lit inside of me.

Petals and perfumes and pleasures abound
in the prologue of peripheral vane.
Krîm Hûm Hrîm Krîm Hûm Hrîm Svâhâ Hrîm
Krîm Krîm Krîm - magical power demesne.

by Linda Marie Van Tassell

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