('The Kiss' by Auguste Rodin)
Let dreams not captivate my love tonight,
let my distant cries now be heard by him.
Let memories of me not haunt his sight-
My face before his eyes; the rest be dim.
Let hands not reach for stars that shine so bright,
let them be burned by cold wits or at whim.
Let moons procure not what he knows of 'light'-
aflame, my heart be christened this by him.
Let him succumb to anything but night;
let him but come and kiss this crimson rim,
drink the passion and be drowned with its might-
Let him, let him, let him, let him, let him. . .
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