I’d wish to be a painter true,
To take the color from your lips,
And with it paint, in gentle drips,
A flower glowing scarlet hue.

From out your hair I’d steal the night —
That dense adornment, rich and deep,
As if from molten tar would creep.
With it I’d paint the darkest light.

From your eyes’ blue I’d beg a trace —
So deep and grand, like heaven’s dome,
Where truth itself has made its home.
With it I’d paint a star in space.

The purest white I’d also take
From pearly teeth that shyly gleam,
That hide a smile — a tender dream.
I’d steal it with my brush, awake.

Your breasts — two seeds of dusky hue,
Of warmest brown, so rich, divine,
That stir the soul to stray, to pine —
They lead my thoughts to shameless truth.

To paint a living spring, I’d plead,
A dew-kissed sheet where dawn once cried…
From your pure cheek, where tears reside,
Grant me that drop of crystal need.

But paint I can’t — there is no wonder,
For I would paint the universe.
I end instead this humble verse —
For I’m no painter… but a versemonger.

30.01.2016