And looks so glum, this artless youth
fasting, yet in vivid reverie rapt of food,
who favors living with feverish thoughts?
How insolent is that secreted pleasure,
of memories, when she tenderly strips—
the dusky dress falling, incensing the air
with a scent of sweet amber tone,
enchased with stars of amethyst hue,
the lecherous gaze in your core struck.
Peerless lips in pitiless passion sport;
the barranca spring of rose-water drool,
fusing, stifling, in your pensive coulee,
as from the crest guzzling, unruly you—
yet still this intern soul you choose to keep
torrid within such disobedient body?!
Of deep oneiric lust some thorn-myrrh grew
at night of the feminine bestowed, a radiant dot
and festooning rest on this rathe-ripe ark,
as a radiance of your incandescent words.
How into ascetic did you so oddly grew,
when of leavened soil you’re formed,
redolent sheath, flaring in lustful dew?