Upon the midnight’s shadowed crest,
where wayward souls in silence meet,
two bodies found their fateful rest,
where time and tide in passion fleet.
The breath of night was thick and low,
as trembling fingers traced desire,
slow murmurs, hushed in molten flow,
unraveled fate in tongues of fire.
The silken dusk, a willing shroud,
concealed their sins, yet bore their cries;
as moonlight bled through heaving cloud,
it kissed the heat in longing sighs.
A tempest lashed in tangled limbs,
of aching flesh and fevered mouth,
like rivers fed by swollen streams,
they drowned within the burning south.
What laws could bind, what vow could tame,
the raging pulse of soul and skin?
For love is naught but kindled flame,
and fire was made to burn within.