Scented silk, just like its makers,
Come forth from sod, shorn of vignettes; 2
In sweat nor prune may man boast not,
Both sheets and petals fashioned God. 4
As did my maker fashion her,
Now be her fashion: like flowers! 6
Yet it ceases not at countenance,
For here is how she bests the princes: 8
Roses, with our eyes, they do teach much;
My girl, her eyes – there is no lust! 10
She is my rose! – Oh, you can’t see:
Here, shut thy doors and breathe freely. 12
Ah, `tis truer now than before,
And believe you: some still want more?! 14
This is why she is my flower:
No man scents what his friend desires. 16
Look here now. With me examine
This rose, her whole, from seed to stigma – 18
Unfettered to the untrained eye,
And full of want in sight of mine. 20
Perceive merely not; no, but breathe
Her thorns, her flaws, her withered wreaths: 22
Her very touch, without safeguard,
One false move, and blood slakes the barb! 24
To grasp a stem, to grace soft skin –
Oh that both drew blood for the sin! 26
It’s tips raze all, my very touch –
Her cling sets flame! Alas, never enough! 28
For wild as unique doth boast her fury;
She stings with pain un-described! Oh, what FURY! 30
Yet no matter how deep nor sore be the wound,
All is made well when eyes fate with her bloom! 32
Well scented, perfumed and ornate her bouquet;
But from one single flower – what else shall I say? 34
took a grand 3 days!!