Say, 1809, Deep South, the last of mimicking Europe's gentle life of the upper-class, with a debutant book of dances, with Gentlemen smoking & brandy saloon and Ladies tea & pastries room, candles scent mixing with summer's intoxicating sweet perfumes of lilacs, jasmine and magnolias and now and then the fru-fru of a starched petty-coat hurrying through the hall going to...
The French had scattered their Vesailles decadent culture all over Dixie, and it would last until 1863, when gentle would be, without meaning, just another word.

Most of the enormous land was empty,
or so in the deep south, they believe,
because there were no end to plantations
where cotton was like snow in summer,
and the looking eyes were so deceived.

By night, air was full of strange sounds,
a soft chorus of people wishing to retrieve
a little of what was left in another life
when they were free to run on their land,
when life was good and they were so naïve.

And then, there was bygones years Dixie,
jasmines and magnolias that didn’t perceived
as their scent hung from gentlemen breeches,
giggling ladies with starched petticoats and
spinsters matrons that love didn’t conceded.

One must remember that there was a river
where a kiss meet a blush, and it received
a response from hungry lips wanting more
in a stir of passion of tortured flesh by love
which is undecided to stay or just to leave.

And there’s tomorrow on the gallants land,
where they will know one day how to grieve,
men will lift their hands against their brothers
and the land would cease to be gentle no more,
brothers of Cain again they will be conceived.

Left by the shores of the river to ever wait,
love without her, by God! It can’t be achieved,
the humility of a prayer making a path for her
so she can find the promised heart at its end
and forbidden feelings can get, yet, a reprieve.