Beautiful, feverish young girl ...
- oh wonderful it would be to hug her now -
between pillows and soft quilts,
her lips half parted.
Her body in a chemise, uncovered,
her eyes open up to me, surprised
- immodestly but unintended -
as does an opening moist flower
to some strange winter mist.
She is surprised and motionless,
and yet she moves;
her body's kiss-singing concavities wait for a kiss:
a thousand hills, valleys, velvety down.
Her blue-veined two hands are pale,
and because I brought a few flowers
her eyes gaze at me, surprised, once again.
Now she recognises me and thanks me for them
(her little lips are peaked and trembling)
- oh to hug her would be so fine -
but I am kissing only her feverish little mouth,
and yet she sighs because
- oh fever! ... -
Her small breasts swell
and her clingy silky shirt's
modest band snaps,
and her hand rummages in my hair.