A thatched patch on scented mound
No living man can fashion
A rising storm it can’t contain
Gives vent to latent passion
A rush, A sigh
Heated blood
Most mortal men it bests
Glimpse of thigh, worried frown
Betrayed by heaving breasts
A man may try to still the tide
Deny his pending omen
Yet cry
And fight
and Strive to hold
The enigma known as
WOMEN
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem