Roses are pink,
and so are your lips –
similar, but same,
they are not.
Roses have thorns,
but sleek as butter
are your lips.
O' come closer,
beloved!
Let me vanish
in the midst
of your lips.
What more could
a lover ask than that?
What more does
a lover yearn for?
Please don’t
be a mere picture
and stand aloof
in your painted form.
Look into my eyes
and feel the pulse
of my forlorn life
waiting to phase out
its moments of solitude,
one by one,
as the shooting stars
in the haven
of your affection and care.
I will be your lover
for the rest of my life,
and if I could choose
my own fate,
I would die in your arms.
That would be
an immaculate farewell.
O' may these desires
be ripe before I kiss the sky.
Let me rejoice ... in my own demise.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 11:52 AM UTC
Roses are pink,
and so are your lips –
similar, but same,
they are not.
Roses have thorns,
but sleek as butter
are your lips.
O' come closer,
beloved!
Let me vanish
in the midst
of your lips.
What more could
a lover ask than that?
What more does
a lover yearn for?
Please don’t
be a mere picture
and stand aloof
in your painted form.
Look into my eyes
and feel the pulse
of my forlorn life
waiting to phase out
its moments of solitude,
one by one,
as the shooting stars
in the haven
of your affection and care.
I will be your lover
for the rest of my life,
and if I could choose
my own fate,
I would die in your arms.
That would be
an immaculate farewell.
O' may these desires
be ripe before I kiss the sky.
Let me rejoice ... in my own demise.
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