my love

thy hair is one kingdom

the king whereof is darkness

thy forehead is a flight of flowers

thy head is a quick forest

filled with sleeping birds

thy breasts are swarms of white bees

upon the bough of thy body

thy body to me is April

in whose armpits is the approach of spring

thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot

of kings

they are the striking of a good minstrel

between them is always a pleasant song

my love

thy head is a casket

of the cool jewel of thy mind

the hair of thy head is one warrior

innocent of defeat

thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army

with victory and with trumpets

thy legs are the trees of dreaming

whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness

thy lips are satraps in scarlet

in whose kiss is the combining of kings

thy wrists

are holy

which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood

thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases

of silver

in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes

thy eyes are the betrayal

of bells comprehended through incense