When on high and holy days
on our knees in church we praise
Him who formed us out of naught,
we shall act like those devout,
humble, bowed ones who seek out
its most sacrosanct resort.
Fervour of another kind
when in bed we’re intertwined
each to each we’ll fondly show.
We shall taste, between the sheets,
countless after-dinner sweets,
some above, and some below.
So explain why, if I dare
nibble at your lovely hair,
kiss your mouth, my darling one,
even let my fingers play
on your breasts, you turn away
like a closely cloistered nun.
Shapely breasts and graceful brow,
bright eyes, twin lips: tell me now,
who is beauty such as this
destined for? Does Pluto wait
at his kingdom’s gloomy gate,
Charon’s passenger to kiss?
When you reach that dismal coast,
you’re a haggard, bloodless ghost
mouthing mutely to the sky.
If I saw you there alone,
I’d be too ashamed to own
we were lovers, you and I.
Once your face was beautiful.
Now a hollow, skinless skull,
void of veins and arteries,
sports a rotten tooth or two,
like those gruesome heads on view
grinning in the cemeteries.
Therefore, while you live, be kind,
mistress mine, and change your mind;
don’t deny your mouth to me.
Death comes soon; our sun will set;
then, at leisure, you’ll regret
how you used me cruelly.
Kiss me, or I die! Come here…
See, you’re trembling like a deer
fleeing from the arrow’s strike.
Here’s my hand; would you permit
me to stroke your breasts a bit
or stray lower, if you like?
