Maria Barbara Korynt
She is falling softly on the floor with thin muslin
Taken down nervously from shoulders.
As will o' the wisps on swamps
Hands turning white with glow of the moon
Hastily to wilderness bodies are wandering
In order to get lost in delight.
She is tilting the head with gilding of the weight
Of soft waving hair with storm-tossed sea.
She is searching for the stronger backrest, stopping
The pressure of the hurricane of desire what kind of Thrusting
the ship onto an iceberg, wants with frenzy
To heat it up and to melt.
She is finding the road for oneself only known
At the longed-for target.
He, patient in his rush knows
That altogether climbed peaks they will record the image
Of unrivalled champion
Of elaborate caresses and delights of imagination
In her eyes.
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