To you Milady, I drink this cup of wine- Vermilion as thyne lips
Smooth and subtle as thyne femininity.
Slowly this mysterious brew
Invades the walls of the palate,
Seducing my very taste buds.
Overflowing, slithering down my throat,
Caressing everything in its passage.
Satin descent, mellifluous.
This bacchanal liquid evaporates in me.
The chambers of my brains-
Volatile, a still of feelings.
Such when the throat is dry
Do flow slowly and in a civil manner.
Let me warn you Milady.
Do not bring this cup to thyne lips.
Because I would be helpless
Without thyne assist.
How would’st I fare
Against the waves that take possession of my body
And that torture my spirit?
There remaineth not a single drop
In this cup of thyne.
Our feelings will soon untether themselves
And they will unfurl upon us.
As do the white and furious waves
That crash upon the rocks on the beach.
Nor the saints in heaven
Nor the devil in hell
Can change our destiny.
We are lost:
Betwixt the sweet breeze of the mountains
And the salt water that froths against our feet;
Betwixt the lights of the heavens above
And the grains of sand beneath our bodies.
We are lost,
And so far away from the white daisies
That float in the wind.