Your lips, soft and full,
Are tearing at my heart.
Your skin, freckled and bumped,
Is at play with my palms.
Your eyes, of water and stone
Rain, storming like fists of hail.
Your *******, are blooms, pouring
Like white chocolate cupped.
Your hair, is a loom even
Penelope could not weave.
Your little feet, are drumming
Like puddles by the sea.
Your thighs, make me mutter
And sigh into the winds.
I will, not go wondering now
For whom is master and who
Is slave, are you the Morgen
Or are you Fand my gentle
Ocean wave? Your voice
Is song, your breath is air
And your pooling, marbled
Face, torso, hair, how they beckon
And your words, gifting melody,
Such words must be forbidden.
Red Colleen (cailín rua dearg)
ag Ormond
Do liopaí, bog agus go hiomlán,
An bhfuil tearing ar mo chroí.
Do craiceann, bricíneach agus bumped,
An bhfuil ag súgradh le mo palms.
Do chuid súl, ar uisce agus cloch
Rain, storming cosúil le fists na clocha sneachta.
Tá do *******, blooms, pouring
Cosúil le seacláid bhán Cuasoisre.
Do chuid gruaige, is fiú loom
Ní fhéadfadh Penelope weave.
Do dhá choisín, ag drumadóireacht
Cosúil le locháin ag na farraige.
Do thighs, a dhéanamh mutter dom
Agus osna isteach gaotha.
Ní bheidh mé, dul wondering anois
A bhfuil an mháistir agus a
Is daor, tá tú ag an Morgen
Nó tá Fand tú mo mhín
Aigéan toinne? do ghlór
An bhfuil amhrán, tá do anáil haer
Agus do comhthiomsú, marbled
Aghaidh, torso, gruaig, conas beckon
Agus do chuid focal, gifting séis,
Ní mór focail den sórt sin a thoirmeasc.