balladeer of moons
174,363 poems read
I saw a mandolin
I saw a mandolin, the descending moon,
Roundly I played on your nakedness.
Your tresses were thin ribbons --
the red ribbons of a woman's happiness.
With teeth of clear moonlight
I bit the song's new apple,
as we lay dripping in the milky silhouette
of a musician's moon.
Your cries refused the night,
but never the true arrow of my fleshwet kiss.
Ai, ai, ai, it was the song
that pleased you so ...
Silken red ribbons were your tresses,
the fine ribbons of the heart's happiness.
In my hands were the jasmined pears
of your complaints and pleasures.
On a little bed of sand,
on the fringes of song and sorrow --
We wed the dusk to the white white moon
by the minister of scented sweetness.
It was the song ... always the song
that pleased you so.
And your hair was of fine red ribbons,
wet with the rain of the white moon's tears.
Roundly I played on your nakedness.
Your tresses were thin ribbons --
the red ribbons of a woman's happiness.
With teeth of clear moonlight
I bit the song's new apple,
as we lay dripping in the milky silhouette
of a musician's moon.
Your cries refused the night,
but never the true arrow of my fleshwet kiss.
Ai, ai, ai, it was the song
that pleased you so ...
Silken red ribbons were your tresses,
the fine ribbons of the heart's happiness.
In my hands were the jasmined pears
of your complaints and pleasures.
On a little bed of sand,
on the fringes of song and sorrow --
We wed the dusk to the white white moon
by the minister of scented sweetness.
It was the song ... always the song
that pleased you so.
And your hair was of fine red ribbons,
wet with the rain of the white moon's tears.