by Luis A. Estable
And so your lips provoking me to sweat.
Your eyes that make the ones of others dirt.
And when you wet, it`s nothing I have met.
You make the rose with human feelings hurt.
But this`s not all; I have to tell your chest
That is, my dear, worth of an angel`s face.
What crazy man on it not wanting rest
Your rear be touched with more than earthly grace.
I`m sorry, bird, her voice makes yours too small.
The painter cries; her lines he cannot paint.
Who made you, woman, so entirely tall?
Oh, God! Who else can really this attain?
Who`s there to say you`re not divine? Tell me!
Your much amaze my human eyes, Lady!
Last updated October 12, 2014