B: Xxxvii: Antidote Poem by Douglas Scotney
B: Xxxvii: Antidote
'Which of my charms is best, my dear? '
My dear asked me this morn.
'There cannot be just one, my dear,
I must say, tout entiere.
On top like now,
Or like down below last night,
You're a myster of mixturies:
The sight of what you hear,
The taste of what you smell,
.....................'
She laughed at the combinations.
At her laugh I laughed as well.
'tout entiere' means 'the whole package'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/26/2024 10:38:20 AM # 1.0.0.1119
