End of day my goat came with shepherd
Containers of warm milk were her breasts
This woman on hands-knees; is the same
What's hanging from her chest is full-fed
She is wild when she looks; and her hair
Pitch black as was night in desert; a bless
And her ears', and her neck's ointments
Reminders of large bell on goat's neck
There are things different; eyes, iris
Latters dark and formers jade-green
This woman is my goat; but those lips
And her face, sort of round; attractive
My feelings can't be same; sure varied
I wonder what of hers makes me creep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem