Our naked limbs that cross
and crease around the other
are a study in the
beauty of line and value-
a nude scale of beige,
and pink and the brown
of my freckles.
This composition was born
from exhaustion as we
collapsed into each other, breathing
like Hindu monks
the sweet prana of the temporal,
of the passionate.
When thoughts return,
they immediately note that we
must look like Sanskrit letters;
the curvature of my hips and
your bony legs the
penmanship of a Rsi
transcribing the sacred sounds
that be-
that make us be
And as we breath a
mantra pours into and out of me
What is this?
What is this?
What is this?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Aah Yes. To quote Oliver Wendell Holmes: Oh, to be 70 again!