Hair-braided chestnut,
coiled like a lyncher's rope,
Eyes-fagots,
Lips-old scars, or the first red blisters,
Breath-the last sweet scent of cane,
And her slim body, white as the ash
of black flesh after flame.
This poem deserves to be poem of the day because ... uh, because ... I give up. Why?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Temptation, Beauty Death coil in an organ of a final shudder.