It is an obsession, to put into words the opium of the lilies; I hear you talk of headiness, of thighs melted with oil; I hear you talk of gentleness, of boys at a wander in the meadow.
Dusk brings out the stronger scent, as if she is mistress of the night times; a sultry seducer who waits for the wine to flow; a damsel to distress, who waits for the music to unwind our sobrieties.
But here, in the breath of daylight, the breezes catch her open cleavage, deliver her consignments to be ravished; a rummage through the undergrowth, before afternoon tea.
Plump plums laid on soft velvet, skinned with musk perfume; all the temperaments of the orient to be ravished; a rummage before afternoon tea.
I hear you talk of obsession, of bodies heaved and thrown; I hear you talk of opium, of bodies with minds, that the scented breeze has blown.
But here, in the breath of daylight, all I can think of, is a rummage before afternoon tea.
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