Men eyes heave on woman as waves, on the shore.
Each wave of men has got a crush on her.
Waves in succession rise and fall ashore,
Each flash yielding innumerable droplets,
That have very much bearing on the shore.
Do they do without a purpose?
Do they do without any pleasure?
Is not the pleasure itself a purpose?
Acts of love are an on-going pleasure.
It purrs the senses, thanks to dopamine.
It enlivens the body, thanks to Endorphin and Enkaphalins.
Loving is like breathing, with t he end in not view.
30.12.2002
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem