by Pedro Mir
She was the pure kind. With a strange
charming way of spinning in her eyes,
she was the pure kind, the evening kind,
and she swiftly spun her silken web.
Although an eerie glow grew bright
and brighter, she was pure and shy.
I had no cabin there close by.
Ronsard washed the hill with light . . .
It was a fair two-way experience.
And, so, culminating her adolescence
on her golden navel, almost a flower,
wearing the knapsack I had for my trip,
I said to myself at the threshold of her hips:
“No lover yet has ever passed through here . . .”
Last updated October 23, 2022