Trailing fingers on supple skin,
The pressing crush of textured lips,
Hardened tissue parting fleshy hair,
Torsos sliding, ramming hips.
Undulating wildly like a wind tossed wave,
Cresting together in a mighty shower,
As a million diadems of passions unbind,
As the final moment draws precipitously near.
A moan and a cry escape fevered lips,
As exploding novae fills empty space,
Liquid heat of creation flows,
Penetrating a cell in the nether place.
What is left behind is a quivering sublime,
A beautiful, serene and pacific calm,
Hands entwined in a wondrous thought:
Why is creation in such violence wrought?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A beautiful poem that portrays the pains of creation and the bliss at the end. Voted 10.