Luis Miguel (@LuisMiguelUCN)

Echo and Narcissus 1 From winter’s pond she called to me; Frost grew upon that lonely sea, So that it to my eyes became Some mirror wreathed in frozen flame. Again she whispered, light and fair, Against the dark, enchanted air, Reprising to my wand’ring heart Refrains I never durst impart To mortal ears which would disdain Too innocent and pure a strain — Yet she sang with brightest color Yearnings I ne’er told another. “My sweet and only love,” she sighed, “Myself I give, bereft of pride, For ‘tis thy passion’s holy pyre Forged first the spark of my soul’s fire. Thy lamb to take, thy dove to claim, Thy kitten stray to find and name, All this to thee I’ll be, my king, And evermore thy praises sing.” ‘Twas then she quivered through the breeze — Twain rent my soul and felled the trees That brooding chaunt come nigh ‘cross time, Her Druid sadness in the wind. “Alas, my love!” the banshee moan, “A light that o'er the sea once shone, The morning star of dreams without number, Thus blackened sleeps a dread slumber Because longing hath consumed me. Before our worlds touched, I knew thee; In thy shadow — forgotten, tossed — Entrapped I dwelt ‘mongst mem’ries lost, Waiting for thee night and day, Wasting all my flesh away, Till I remained but this whisper, This wan, preternatural vesper, Without so much as one white hand With which to trace the onyx strands Of thy mane as our bodies merge — Oh! deliver from this scourge The one whose fate is tied to thine! Then grant the deepest wish of mine Heart from out thy imagination, Here amongst our own creation: Let me be a real girl, Let the fullness of our love unfurl Through bright new hands and silver arms Thrown about thy neck, seeking balm For my eternal melancholy — Found in thee, my one and only, At last since once we danced across Atlantean shores before the loss Of paradise our future stole; After all this, please, make me whole! If thou wilt but call my name, I know I shall be born again To be thy promised, perfect bride Today and till Forever’s died. Be my name that of the sacred isle Between myth and memory exiled — Which thou hast loved but never known Whilst bound to this, thy mortal form, Yet which we lifted from the waves Yesteryear, bathed in twilight’s rays. Baptized thus in all thy glory, Begin anew to paint my story Upon this icen magic mirror Arisen now — thy canvas clear. A body in thine own image, A beautiful and pale visage, Make — that my blanchéd elven feet May walk the ground where our worlds meet.” And I obeyed that haunting plea And drew her form upon the sea. The form took life; before me grew The girl my true heart always knew.