| |
Your beauty strikes me though my heart, dear one.
I fall before you, prostrate. I am yours.
As I lie, my head a little sore from the fall,
I reflect upon my state and conclude it is my mind, not my heart
that is pierced. My head is addled, my heart is full.
Hanque O . . .
| Submitted Date |
: |
Sunday, March 29, 2009 |
|
|