Her cleavage, a breathless butterfly
drinks from the pool of lust and love
reckless, her weight a fallen dove
'shows no desire for fear or flight.'
Little-yet or still none for these-
cessations to stop ghostly, white.
'She is my painted lady distressed
clinging and pulling at my vest'.
Windblown, feathers find little rest.
A short pause before and after
our jointly shared amber nectar
'passes for what was eternal happiness'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem