The ravishment is thorough…
Utterly encompassing.
Nothing is left untouched.
The body.
Takes it’s loving punishment heroically.
Like any battlefield,
It supports all the skirmishes of lovemaking
Only easily… eagerly…sweetly.
The soul.
The love historian. Recording it all.
Storing every fiber, every ounce
Of emotion, every thought, every feeling
Eternally.
The players.
He, who is the ravisher…becomes, in turn, the ravished.
The mounded topography of entwined bodies
Adoringly undulate against
And with each other.
The heavens.
The heavenly bodies seem to spin faster
and grow brighter
With each mutual caress.
Misshapen crescents and stars of silvery moonlight
slide upon the lovers’ skin
in an attempt to burn and etch
themselves forever there.
The ravishment is done…
They are spent…they are satiated.
They are ONE.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The soul, is loves historian, your right and has since time began This i a lovely poem that you have shared Such eloquence - can't be compared! *10*! ! Best wishes Julie, Friend Thad