More waves, those fondlers tangle us at sea,
inside avidity, with susurrus and lewd.
We trust in our wings and set the scene
for oars of kiss to soak in lust, the night to hue.

Young dawn, he keeps his senses to the ground,
paints reveilles with bird-of-passage brush.
Spellbound, we barely breathe and move a sound.
We are a string without a finger, notes and hush.

The poetry, she’s born in lashes’ flight.
Her feathers learn to glide and leave behind goose bumps.
When spring is reached and seamless to indite
the eyes believe in touch and hearts are starved to pump.

In every move we feel the urge to shrive,
to bloom in twirled caress inside this blindfold nook
for words won’t take us further than a jive,
a tear would not retain this fairy-tale by hook.

Just catching breath and making waveless seas...

February 14, 2011

Дещо вільний переклад ось цієї штукенції:
http://stihi.ru/2011/02/11/672