After the party laughter,
Her lips are still red
As she walks beneath
The soft glow of moonlight.
Lasciviously, she smiles at me
Knowing I already adore her
Even more than my wounded eyes
Could ever reveal
Gazing upon her
Like a pious monk
Upon a sacred icon.
Her thin summer dress
Tenderly breaks my heart,
But this is the type of suffering
In which I desire to linger.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It's enchanting, Uriah; makes me love being a woman, even if you didn't intend to. X's and O's