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I will not tell my tale to everything I meet. I will not share the secrets of my heritage, the enigma of my birth, or the harsh degradation of youth. But I will say that the earth grants and gives, then clasps and clutches, takes and sullies. Then, it bestows again; an endless cycle, an eternal bliss of faithfulness and treachery. Here, I shall devote something of my own to you. My passion, my love, my strength, my allegiance. What will you choose to ensnare?
Nomadic, wayfaring, wandering, wavering, from the devil’s pull, the Mephistophelean grasp, she moved without pause. A petal soft praise, silken shuffle of swift, maneuvering feet, she emerged, poised from the thread of lilies and persimmons. Like a Romani, she diverged and diverted many times over, to the furtive, specious gallows of Stygian oils and midnight veils, to the delusion of light and air, honeyed and candied fields. A restless genesis, pervaded with sacrifice and callused, cold stares, and heartfelt interludes ignored, disregarded. Again and again, the sonnet of sorrow and dejection penned the hallowed hollows of her life: but never her words, her phrases, her sentences, her movements. Where chill would permeate a wounded soul, settle into the veins and freeze the fabric of an entity so that it could not bleed and could not feel, she blossomed. A whimsical floret, she grew in the brine of gloom, spreading her flowers in hopes they would read the sun’s wide, warm halo. No one bothered to investigate this strange upheaval of behavior; an abandoned scion, unpolished, fettered and withering, suddenly assertive, sanguine, and unyielding, in spite of the cruelest junctures barbed upon her frame over and over. From wickedness, grew hope. From savagery, grew aspiration. From brutality, grew virtue. Perhaps, some admitted, she simply chose to embrace life, and what little love it had given her.
She flourished now, in the lonesome forest. It sang of desolate, forlorn hearts, with their requiems for companions, shelters from the storms. She could relate, almost sink into the murky layers of their despair, but refused the tug of frail leaves and enticing branches. Instead, she twisted, a fairy in the mist, her motions airy, radiant, blending into the gnarled knots of wood and brush. Her noble head, dished, feminine cheeks, slid by quivering boughs, her lithe, sienna body coveted the seams of shadow and turned them to gilded alms. She was made of her own allure, this paradoxical Lena, and did not relent to the sinister harpsichords of nefarious delight. Rather, she joined the merriment of light bending and blending amongst the glade, became one with the effulgence, rekindled and ignited all over again, this mystical, reticent gypsy. Her movements did not flood with sound, but with morality, integrity, and beneficence. Then her smile, indulgent and generous, surrounded her lips and allowed the warmth to further glide, winsome and genuine. A gift of layers, mysteries and strength, brilliant conviction wrapped in the mischievous, fanciful play of a heartfelt youth - should I be allowed to dream that here, in these thickened groves of fantasy and awe, that I will find serenity?
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