Who are you that you can smell
Of cardamom?
I cannot see what you wear
So delicately that the
Horizon betrays a funny purple.
The teal-clouds this evening
Are willed to a Continent.
Of what magnitude of beauty
Do the roots of your people,
your gods,
Call upon them so simply
Like they correspond as one.
Jaded little two-eyes, you.
The trees have never looked so
Laden, stooping over you
As if you had sung to them.
Little cupid's quiver
A mere ersatz next to yours,
And behind it
A collection of ivory gems,
Glimmering like a blinding
Pearl.
Your look is killing, little prince.
With your filigreed sleeve-arms
And your brownish tufts.
Do not spare me a full look
Until I have recovered
Sense.
Your breath, the small huffs and puffs
My tongue prods eagerly so
Reeks of overblown roses;
Like a breeze from Boreas
It blows in the long grass.
