I owe, I owe all to my stirring, blushing lady;
To her tacit eyes, to her lips that savour of thirst;
Her palm, whose sweat my hand lowered to wipe;
Her lean arms, that are captive of my lorn eyes;
Her sturdy and slender waist promising me a nest;
Her love borne thought nudging its way to my path.
I heave in my soul when she hides her warmth.
If at all I live, it is for her, by her and due to her.
She is not the cause of my birth but can be for my death.
01.01.2001, Pmdi
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Let her read the poem