Poesía - 3

The golden light of dusk,
fed her eyes, her face and hair,
and turned on fire the most
beautiful linen dress.

Not the sand under her feet,
nor the sea to which she gave warmth,
could keep me from gazing,
at such a wonderful sight.

And she turned on her dance,
the welcomed marine breeze,
to which her sacred white dress kept beat,
chanelling my every sense into the deepest bliss.

Yet, my every intent to approach her,
were deseperately vain, as she followed
to turn and turn, fading out, growing pale,
turning my sweet princess, into a forgone tale.