O Muse who does not yield
when I try to plant a kiss
on your pale, pink lips
My tongue becomes a forked
flickering, dreadful thing
curls around your body
in tendrils smoke-flame thin
adorning you, creeping
around you - a game
All because, O Muse
you do not yield to me
your pale, pink lips
when I come to you
to plant on them a kiss
as I prefer you plain
and not thus, leaves tattoo'ed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem