My lover comes at the morning dawn. He brings a gift of wood; hard wood, glistening with the morning’s dews. I will rub the wood with the dew, polishing it to a warm glow. Turn aside, my sisters. Other princes come across the glades bringing gifts for you. My lover is coming; I have taken his wood into my garden.
Come, my bride. Like a mighty horse, prepared for battle, I will carry you to the mountains, even to the highest peaks. The saddle is sturdy, it’s horn is strong. Wrap your fingers around it. Caress it; it is well oiled, ready for you to mount and impale yourself upon it.
Your hair is like a cascading waterfall, flowing down through your hills and valley, spreading across the plains. I will unlock your cloak, your coverings made from the finest silks, and spread them across the ground. Your inner garment is a delicate weaving, like a spider’s web. I will gather it. You will wear it no more. No longer will your secret place be hidden from me.
Your lover is a wild mustang, snorting and prancing and bucking. Your lips are sweet and your words are like honey. Your hands stroking him calm him.
Remove your cloak. Spread it across the ground. I will kneel, and you will mount your steed. I will rise up and carry you off to the hills, to the high, enchanting places.
My lover dances across the plains, looking for the orchard, the heavy-laden tree bearing fruit, ready to be plucked, ripe for eating. He descends through the orchard’s valley and climbs the rolling hills, looking for delicate flowers waiting for his touch. Let him taste the fruit in my orchard. Let him smell the fragrance of the flowers on my hills.
My lover is satisfied with the fruit on the rolling hills. The road is steep, the ride rough, but my steed’s saddle is pleasant, and I will not fall. He carries me to the peak; the saddle’s horn swells larger. His fingers have found another delicate flower. He dips them in its nectar and inhales its fragrance.
The mountain’s peak is just beyond the next ridge. I tremble at the approach to its heights. My lover’s wood crashes through the threshold; it throws open the doors to my garden.
The air is still—still and quiet, like the calm before the storm. Lightning streaks across the sky. Bright flashes announce the arrival of refreshing showers. Peals of thunder crash upon us, rolling across the valleys below, rising up to meet us. Like an eagle, I leap into the air. On strong wings, I soar. My cries of joy reach my sisters in the valley below. My lover, like a wild mustang, rises up to greet the thunder. His horn bursts forth like a geyser, like a fountain of the finest wine, quenching our thirst.
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