What silk with balms of time
Where the Chimera exhausts itself
Is worth the twisted and native cloud
Which you stretch out of your mirror?

The holes of contemplative flags
Thrill themselves in our avenue
For myself, I have your undressed hair
To bury my satisfied eyes in

No! The mouth will not be sure
It tastes anything in its bite
If it does, your princely lover

In the considerable tuft of hair
Exhales, like a diamond
The shout of the Glories which he stifles

04/09/2008