5951 Guest at Mordecai’s banquet

Not always, 

But when I 

Slide along 

The slopes of 

Your steep 

Mountains, 

As if I were 

A surfer 

Of silver, 

I feel in my chest 

The amalgam 

Of sensations 

You lead me 

To experience, 

When I breathe in, 

With a resolute chest, 

The pristine pollen of your 

Softly sighing calm.

And within these 

Balls of fire 

In which I travel, 

Wrapped in 

The aura 

Of your hands 

Upon my head, 

I live an apocalypse 

Of eagerness 

That makes me sigh.

Actually, 

What I want to say is 

That I long, 

With anxious desire, 

To repeat once more, 

Like a guest 

At Mordecai’s 

Banquet, 

The taste of your fruits 

Forbidden

To my desire.