In tawny depths of your eager eye,
The dreamer had once lost her sight,
Now in despair the sable cries,
Blinded by unseeing white.
Bright canary, evening prairie bred,
Dances with the flaming textures of yellow and red,
And even the saffron of sacred thread,
Can’t compete with Tawny’s virtue, I said.
From an old photograph, nostalgic sepia beckons,
With reminding innocence, memories awaken,
But Sepia’s gallant mischief,
Only makes unhealing wounds prick.
From English coats and painted walls,
The classy opulence of beige calls,
But beige’s suave grace fails to enthrall,
Before your elegance, beige is small.
With passion, fevered Amber speaks,
But she’s ain’t the special brown, she lacks your severity.
In her persistent effort, she struggles to reach,
The potency of your hypnotic allure, simply unique.
Lovely fawn of vernal birth,
With fierce pride starts to smirk,
On the dreamer he tries his luck,
But his crafty plans do not work.
Shy plum hiding in fruit, now ripening,
Timidly looks to the dreamer, imploring,
Filled with good cheer, a hopeful song he sings,
But tuneless is his melody, the dreamer finds no meaning.
Attractive is the pomegranate,
With keen intent, wicked, he tries to infatuate,
The juicy richness is used as bait,
But the dreamer is heedless; she skips past him, unaware.
Under the unforgiving Libran skies,
Feeding earth’s damp moisture, greedy maize thrives,
In his effortless beauty, he continually tries,
To match the pulchritude of your invisible eyes.
Peach, dull fallow and peppercorn,
From your rosy benevolence, have something to learn,
In declaring his superiority, canary is stubborn,
But he is not what the dreamer so deeply yearns.
The pleasing turquoise of tortoise-shell,
In the majestic rhythm of oceanic waves, swells,
With a burst of sea-spray, his story he tells,
But the dreamer dismisses him with a cruel farewell.
Apricot cures not, the insatiable thirst,
He is handsome, yea, but offers little comfort,
To the dreamer’s heart, now so hurt,
She misses the tawny in her every breath.
On the spirited falcon’s soaring wings, pure russet can be found,
In the narcissistic lupine backs, she is apparent and bold,
Soil, laterite, sees her presence, glaring and loud,
And yet, what russet does, to the dreamer, does not matter.
Primrose is pretty as she is pompous,
Petite, cheery, she laughs and giggles,
The merry, careless morning chortle,
Makes the dreamer remember fluid eyes, supple.
As the teashops, the dreamer passes,
Chocolate of hot stove, with aroma tempts,
To taste the irresistible cocoa, the ladies gather,
But with shivering bones, continues the dreamer, knowing that tawny was warmer.
Henna, Khaki, Rust and flamboyant Ochre,
In lovely shades, everywhere linger,
Chrome, chestnut and healing ginger,
Simply do not satisfy her.
Vandyke brown on chrysal wings,
Living Crimson to her cheeks, do not bring,
Peach, pear and tangerine,
In making her week-kneed, cannot succeed.
Tawny’s ardent brown is past all praise,
His vivaciousness, topaz and onyx cannot wear,
Brown’s every single shade,
To tawny’s specialty, cannot compare.
For him, the dreamer searches, distraught,
In growing fir, and citric lemon, he is deeply sought,
But even to her searching eyes, tawny doesn’t respond,
Unfruitful, the faithful black weeps, to reach the tawny, now begone.
The song-bird sang on the 12th of December,
3:07 am
