Morena: A Letter to One Like the Roman Goddess, Psyche

Right there, pretty feminine soul, like young Princess Psyche why do you hide away?    
Do you know that there are a thousand men that praise you    
and that Cupid comes another day?    
“Stay still, Morena    
(this news I have been guided to give to you, the words of an honest man)."    
You seek a good heart in the dark world    
when you can only know what is good in the light.    
   
He writes,    
“Is it true    
that all in this world for you    
is a horribly rotten dragon of a man?    
The tale’s worn page is turned to again:    
“Was it God that forced me to be alone?    
Is he that jealous of human love?”    
And then, there’s Venus.    
the antagonist of every rising beauty.    
For years she has been the ideal woman    
—distant and self-centered flaunting her alabaster form for the gods of the heaven’s theater,    
but you are smart and unique, kind Morena,    
and yet you are so beautiful as well.    
Into the vacuum of darkness the frenzy of your red heart    
where play out the lowest passions of the human flesh,    
and your dream of a royal lover    
whose riches would be in his artistic devotion to    
your light cinnamon nape    
to nuzzle it with love verses more golden in weight than affluent Mayan jewelry    
and more sweet than fresh roasted and grounded cocoa beans, granulated Asian sugar cane, cinnamon, and red chili powder brewed in hearty young milk.    
   
There is Venus    
passing through the corridor    
directing the aim of all men’s arrows of vision.    
There is Venus    
in the books you read,    
in the images you put before your sad winter eyes.    
Apollo’s wisdom, common thought,    
strengthens your doubt in your future.    
   
The doors of eternal light slowly seal their hopes away from you,    
That is the façade of the dark.    
Being not one of the dark,    
growing accustomed to the dark,    
but having thoughts of light to which you are no longer accustomed    
that prevent you from capturing a stable place in the dark    
that to you has become a lot like light,    
you are desperate    
and confused    
because for one creature to accept another    
that creature must be made to believe that the other creature adores it,    
and you cannot make the dark world desire you    
because your heart that knows a better light cannot convince the world whole-heartedly    
that the light that it offers is the light that the heart desires.    
   
Your passion is an elegant red rose, Morena,    
that dances balletically in the wind,    
waiting for humans to witness what spectacles you already perform instinctively.    
You are great beyond measure,    
and it’s because of that “beyond” that there are few that measure you.    
   
I have seen many rainy days    
and have attempted diction and figurative language to describe my endless joy    
and perceiving many days the warm shower of sunlight    
fall over my cheeks and my open arms and penetrate the pores of my free skin,    
I’ve attempted diction the more.    
But I can only long to hug that ball in the sky    
and lay myself out on the puffy white cushions above,    
and I believe the same with you, Morena, that though I can never come to find words to make you love yourself through me,    
I can tell you about the state of Nirvana that I come to find    
when I drink the aroma, the intellect, the charm, the sight, the touch of your presence,    
and I can give you flowers and draw a picture    
and, if you’d let me,    
hold you tight    
and hold you tighter    
and kiss you    
and hope that you see it, Morena,    
that you are surpassing Venus.    
   
What is beauty, but what I see before me?    
What is truth, but what I say that I know?    
To me arrive, Morena,    
to the gaps between my fingers    
or no,    
no, I will locate you    
hiding like Psyche in the shy dense black air,    
and, giving you a great love in the dark,    
I will lure you to the light you want    
and show you that this all is right    
—the holy fantasy in your heart    
that also claims existence within mine.”    
   
These are the words of a secret fellow.    
He knows the extents of love    
but is too shy,    
is too uncommon    
to surrender it to the shallow opulent sisters that meet their end    
realizing that there is no god to catch the hubris-stricken.    
Once, he was a servant of Venus,    
but now he comes to you to do his worship,    
young Morena, who reminds me, a grey western courier, of Psyche (before she came to be known as a goddess)    
when she was charged by Venus    
to collect black water from the rivers Styx and Cocytus,    
and, climbing a cliff, she was surrounded by dragons,    
but Jupiter’s eagle frightened them away    
and retrieved for her the water,    
and she knew that a greater god was on her side.    
   
Your admirer continues,    
“Down into the pits of the underworld, persistent girl,    
you go.    
You know pain and hard work and strength    
and hope to attain more beauty than you have seen of yourself,    
but why in the glorious light on the top surface of the earth    
do you perceive that you are not beautiful?    
For that reason, you are locked in a heavy sleep    
charmed by a box that claims your perception of aestheticism,    
and I must awake you.    
Awake, despiértate, Morenita Mia, one like the eternal Roman goddess Psyche    
and drink the drink of immortality    
that is belief in one’s self.    
Come with me. Here I am creeping from beneath the shadow    
of your tender sleepy eyelids.    
Dreariness fades, and the illusion of Venus fades,    
and the oracle of Apollo fades,    
and the darkness of the whole wide world fades    
with an early twilight    
and the explosive jubilant opening of piercing illumination    
of the mouth of a lovely wedding day.”    
   
This is the letter that was written by an honest man    
in hopes to find grace with the beautiful brown skinned lady.    
I am but a messenger to carry this letter    
though the man himself follows closely behind me.