Catacombs of sweetness of your
finger lays the the rushing river
of your love.
Wine skin of your mouth to know
the smoothness taught of
belly grows
the leaking of a faucet never fixed.
Face in chest silenced lust to lay
aside my roaming days.
In fields of clover soft and sweet the
bees in it do make the
honey flow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem