The strands of your hair, resistant to sadness, blessing the seasons
The rising sun on your eyebrows, where its inhabitants dress particles of fire opals
The look of your eyes, a dungeon of swallows, built within lovely lotuses
Your nose of fusion of sea stars, six in the morning and Tropic of Cancer
Your hidden ears, as two girls, in a world of poplar seeds
The sweet loaves of bread of your cheeks like a baby sleeping in her crib
And the eroticism of your mouth, always perched in me
So after kissing you it would not escape
Even the shadow of the slightest sigh