I see thy collar - stiff with virtue.
thou art no vestal, don't thou feign;
thy wealth of hair escapes the kerchief,
thy coral lips are not to pray.
with thee gold rings I wouldn't share
and wouldn't seek thee in the mist;
but our paths somehow dare
to meet in their every twist.
I seldom touch thee, staying loyal
to guillotine of thy thin hand;
but waking up to thee is royal,
and this I cannot comprehend.
put on a smile.
I sketch thee roughly
among the Pleiades filled with smoke.
let the recorder rant its puffy
old poetries thee love to mock.
the trunks are packed - it stands to reason;
but here's a flash that's still unspent:
I play the timeless "Für Elise"
on fragile fingers of thy hand.
