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1722

Her face was in a bed of hair,
Like flowers in a plot—
Her hand was whiter than the sperm
That feeds the sacred light.
Her tongue more tender than the tune
That totters in the leaves—
Who hears may be incredulous,
Who witnesses, believes.

Edited by Peter Carter

Added: 2 Apr 2003 | Last Read: 7 Sep 2008 6:39 AM | Viewed: 4862 times

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