Flaming angels of spring weave a pastoral tapestry
O’er the sleepless, meadowed minds,
Entreating the burning softness of summer;
Freedom, resurrected in its breath,
When warmly winds lick the searching faces
Inhaled ‘neath the rapture of its tongue.

Passion seasons fruit for its victims,
Nestled in pain of unrewarding sympathy;
Passion is pain when my aching visions ripen
To capture a beckoning of soft-winged flight,
In a galaxy, aflame in ruby smiles,
Who drop their listless buds on the blossoming sun.

In the bleeding eyes of a vixen,
Her mean look, a passion, killing,
But indifference is all that grins
And like a frightened fawn fashioning her flight,
She escapes, leaving only unlit caresses of the breeze
That chases her fresh, murmuring fragrance behind.

Your sober womanhood is a womb of emptiness pouring into my life:
Sacred rivulets rippling over my fallen thoughts,
Moistened in pink—the pulse of you winged petals,
Whose nectar ribs are like a sparrow’s throb under your belly;
Panthers unleash in the nostrils of your eyes,
Gnawing silently, my fleshly stillness.

Again my eyes erupt in vain worship,
Venerating the brimming buoyancy of your cheeks,
Whose enchanting waves kiss and recede harmoniously,
Washing away every breath I take,
As every moment I live, I breathe you --
Flaming angel of spring, your last voice is upon me.