Bringing the center
of the blossom
to my lips
the irresistible aroma
is literally to die for.
I now understand
the meaning of petite mort.
Inebriated and dizzied
my tongue darts
into the salmon-colored
center never thinking a flower
can be seasoned this good.
But then it takes a barbarian
Cossack gypsy to lodge
his tongue in rose caviar.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem