The Flute Player's Maiden

My love is not a red, red rose, but a stone
rising cold in the mist of an ancient morning.
He is winged, but no angel, this one that I love
His wings are the wings of a crawling thing
His music swells from a long, thick, wooden flute.
His gifts are songs and soulful looks and seed.

Where will you plant this wonderous new-life seed?
This seed as hard and enduring as a peach stone.
Come closer and, over my fields wave your pinion flute
With new day will come new life in the morning
Sprouting and breathing will come many a new thing.
Made lovely by your music, your soul song and love.

My fields are tilled soft and ready for my lover's love
Ready for the roots and flowers of his seed.
In the glory of this holy dawn, a wonderous thing,
His seed will glisten like precious stone
like the final stars of a desert morning
like the highest, sweetest notes of a well-played flute.

My love is called blessed, master of his flute
Rising above all others in the depth of his love
Once prince of night, now king of morning.
His graneries bulge with young, plump seed,
and his crown is ringed with ruby stone.
He wants for my love and for no other thing.

My love witholds from me no good thing.
He teases me to hunger with his flute
and laughs as I grind spark from stone.
His wood shivers under weight of love
He is not stingy with his wet seed,
but as extravagant as dew drops in morning.

Come lie with me, this fair morning.
Our dreams will host no haunting thing.
Cover us soft with a blanket of seed.
Serenade me with your lovely flute
and I will hum a tune of love.
A love more enduring than even stone.

It is morning, love, draw forth your flute
Wha a heavenly thing, is this love.
Born simply of seed, but carved forever in stone.