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

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