Black, Persian Curls

I dreamed of her, with her head of black, Persian curls,
and her dusky and warm skin, not like the other girls.

The snow on the mountains seem so distant in spring.
I dreamed of kissing jasmine lips, of giving her a ring.

She was a stranger from across a bright, blue sea.
She wore some other face, but I did not turn from she.

On a spring afternoon we talked by the soccer field.
The sun so bright in our magic, left a dream unhealed.

And she spun the words of countries long past.
Of golden ships with silver angels on their mast.

Once, I held her hand, as stars peaked through twilight.
Her love, her dreaming angel eyes, where my delight.

In my dreams it is spring again, and we are young.
There, only there, did I kiss her as my wife, as bells rung.

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