Ajijic, high above the lake,
a day’s no more than what you make.
A hotel on a cobble street,
a lady there, I chanced to meet.
Her villa perched upon a hill.
An autumn day can fan a chill.
An afternoon, a brief repast,
a time to rest, respite at last.
A cup of tea, a room to hire,
discourse beside a roaring fire.
Two glasses, a smile upon a tray,
a lovely way to spend a day.
A bottle uncorked, to decanter,
an afternoon, two souls to banter.
A lady of classics versed and learned,
language, letters deservedly earned.
Immersed in art, and well pleasured
evinced well read, qualities treasured.
Phrases turned with style and grace,
her simple dress, linen and lace.
Her face a façade, so abiding,
wondered what she might be hiding.
Each a special tale to tell,
a deep dark pit, a wishing well.
On the mantle a frame of white,
in its hold, her picture tight.
Drawn a stare, so deep so dark
visage unsettling, emotion stark.
Eyes spoke volumes, expression cast,
a tunnel to a distant past?
Her youthful face, there her yearning,
foreboding smile, sad yet burning
Eyes, pierced, black as night
seared, emitted a blinding light!
A story unwritten, not yet told,
a hidden history to unfold?
And so recounts the years gone bye,
her face aglow, hear her sigh.
Smile ablaze, her youthful glory
she narrates a wondrous story.
Her life, her love, her heart’s desire,
tales of passion, lust and fire.
Desire’s a weight that’s not abated,
pierce the veil that time’s created.
Embrace her life, hear her story
rejoice, rejoice celebrate her glory!
A song to be forever sung,
an old woman now, forever young.
—Martin A. Bojan—