O’, that I am but withered,
ragged bones hewn awry;
let this last taste of your lips
be milk to saturate my flesh.
O’, that I have but one breath,
ne’er to braze upon your neck;
for with exhale, my heart falls,
only words are left to caress.
O’, that my eyes have faded,
for in such gaze as you offer;
dare I to reach for your form,
as if to fondle a perfect rose.
O’, that gods have made you,
yet, bid naught to my hands;
for if my strength had thunder,
I’d ravage you in ardent throes.