She was an island. Lone, protected, isolated, and pristine, with the wind and birdsong her only company. The ships would come and go. At first they came with tentative steps, they took only coconuts and the fruits of her labors. But next they came with a heavier hand, and gouged trenches and caverns into her flesh. They took away her most precious of stones, one by one, she was undone and laid bare in the baking sun.
She dreamt of the low and hushing tide, a gentler hand to sooth and ride, in… out… in… like steady breath ere before sleep. She dreamt of gentile and tropical rain, rivulets to cleanse and refresh, warm and tender bared, with the scent of lilac on the air. She looked to the stars instead, and fell in love there, in the twilight twinkling of midnight fair.
She was an island. The ships came and went. They took away everything of value, and left ravages in their wake. Her landscape was forever changed. Young, lush forests of green were trampled and machete-cleaved. Her gentile curves up-heaved, man-handled and made unclean. The diamond in her breast, torn out and packaged and sent, to a place far away, unseen, forgotten, or perhaps even displayed, like some carnal prize in a window-shop for others to covet and gawk.
She dreamt of the ocean and softer breeze, swaying to and fro in natural rhythm of heartbeats and holding hands. She dreamt of petal soft kisses and butterfly touch, of leaf-soft brush against skin and lush earthen bed beneath. The stars no longer winked back, and the ships only caressed the horizon as they skimmed past. A millennium moved in this way, desolate, abused, and forgotten away.
She was an island. Where the ships no longer stood at bay, or came to sing songs or laugh or even stay. She cleared her throat, and with a mighty roar, she screamed her desperation to the sun, and molten magma burned from her lungs. She destroys herself with liquid stone and fire, singeing away all the scars and torment of ungrateful lovers. And every living thing is charred, decimated, concealed in stone until she is unrecognizable and protected, at last. Hardened, ragged and porous, coarse and tough, she is untouchable now, until she reaches the sea.
She is an island. Barren and stone. But the tide moves, in… out… in… caressing gently, smoothing her jagged rocks to bone. The sea has all the time in the world to woo, with tender touch and rhythm that is capable to best her protesting mood. And then the rain comes, with kisses sweet, and tickles forth a tiny sprout. She will be reborn. But she cannot see, the little leaf, for the forest of dead trees.