i don't really think that it is
just a sound,
well, it could be a song,
a singsong,
of sweet groans
and lusty moans,
a sigh perhaps
a hush
in the middle of the night
some buds
that open to the tickle
of the
sun ray
one morning from a slit
of a violet venetian
blind
open hands,
lips gaping for gaping lips
a tongue
searching for taste
eyes
half-closed waiting
for your caress
that unforgotten kiss
hair freely falling
like winds
dancing in the field
of white tulips
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
intimately serene. made me feel young again. john