We speak of art, and then we speak of words,
We speak of colours, then we speak of rhyme,
Yet our eyes are coloured, with thousand swords,
And in our voice plays music, all the time.
We speak of wander, then we speak of aim,
We speak of sun, and then we speak of rain,
Yet our roads are even, our dreams the same,
Our pleasures are mixed, with a bloody pain.
Whether in rage or peace, sorrow or joy,
Our skins do long for an eternal touch,
For both our souls and our bodies enjoy
A lustfulness which is never too much.
I wonder why the taste of stolen wine,
Is the sweetest, and why you can't be mine !
