Her Voice 2 Poem by John Florio

Her Voice 2
© John

As the earth is thirsty in warm April,
In separate agony of rain for long;
I was longing for her voice, my Angel,
That seems to be a melodious song.
Thus, when she starts to speak,
The sitar begins to play I think.

Sweetness on her tongue sits, and lips,
Are intoxicating more than wine;
From the matured lips, red wine drips,
And radiates more than sunshine.
She is the melody of the flute,
Or the sweet tunes of the lute.

My Lord! I'm blessed to have this heard,
A miracle that hardly happens twice;
I wish YOU had made her a gentle bird,
Then, I would keep her in paradise.
I would tend to her with care,
Feed her pearls, and I do stare.