|"Grass on the way of love" by Keisai Eisen (1790 -1848)|
Don’t speak of subterranean streams
Primeval lifeblood of our dreams
Of cravings hot and melded skin
Burying consciousness deep within.
In shadowy bowers
Entwined for hours
Panting frantically for breath
The “petit mort” or little death.
She looked at me and I was lost
For paradise our hearts are crossed.
Don’t speak of hands with blood red nails
Or love when longing still prevails
Of cavern deep and turret high
We plunge to earth to grasp the sky.
But in the halls of fantasy
I looked at her and she saw me
Logic, common sense and guile
We’ll leave them gasping for a while.
In boiling artery and vein
Immortal urges pulse again.