So delicate are a woman's feelings,
as when I consider just those eyelashes,
so tenderly should the lover regard the heart of her -
yet when but one of those eyelashes enters my heart,
robbing me of speech, churning me to butter,
then I know what a power is in that very woman!
Verily, she is in all her beauty -
and all the wisdom of that: the grace of God.
Our Lovemaking is like the mixing of honey with milk,
bodies of satin, whispers of silk:
I fall trembling into your receiving embrace,
my head in your lap, then you sit on my face -
my arms receive you, and tremors in your loins equal those in mine,
we are like sovereign lions rolling in the grasses of the Serengetti...
the rhythm of our fucking is constant and steady.
There is nothing forced, artificial, redundant, or missing -
but listening, feeling, gazing, in that depth of our kissing.
Those tears on your cheek you needn't wipe -
they are from me, for I just wept
while pressing my lips there in a prolongued kiss,
my brow resting against your temple.
And I, longing to return to you and enter your Temple,
now enfolded in your arms, my face burrowing
into your neck, nestling there, as you stroke my hair -
I kiss and kiss that neck, leaving more tears
of joy for loving you and gratitude for making love with you.
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