I owe, I owe all to my
stirring, blushing lady;
To her tacit eyes, to her
lips that savour of thirst;
Her palm, whose sweat my hand
lowered to wipe;
Her lean arms, that are
captive of my lorn eyes;
Her sturdy and slender waist
promising me a nest;
Her love borne thought
nudging its way to my path.
I heave in my soul when she
hides her warmth.
If at all I live, it is for
her, by her and due to her.
She is not the cause of my
birth but can be for my death.
01.01.2001
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