She is called Sophia.
No matter how thick her lips
is rouged with wisdom just like her name,
even though her whole life is given to God,
and her passion of feminism is being hidden in her breasts,
she wishes to be a woman in her heart?
Then her skin-deep body would follow.
That’s why she said to ordinary women
that sacred and sexual didn’t hate each other.
If she were a virgin, I would be happy but disappointed.
If she weren’t a virgin, I would be bitter but relieved.
Well, how could I pluck a star?
The only thing I could do is to fly
my kite high up in the sky
toward her bosom
that is yearning for being a woman?
Let her be,
if she looks soaked deep in sorrow.
Maybe a preview;
If I become a flower;
If I become a pretty flower,
Just like this,
I would be enraptured with flapping of butterflies;
I would be humbled by jealousy of other flowers.
For now just one minute.
But if I become a real flower.
I should live like this every day.
I believe she looked at me.
I didn’t look at her, though.
Perhaps I forgot to look.
I was afraid of her moist eyes?
I couldn’t resist her body language of desire?
Wouldn’t matter if it’s just an illusion.
I was enchanted with other butterflies.
If she had flown to me
I would have seen me in her eyes.
But I will be in her eyes?
If I become a flower;
If I become a pretty flower.
Being dragged by women with plenty of lechery,
He was thrown in front of a man called Jesus,
who asked what this was about. This man insulted
us. He seduced us with moist poems full of sultry
words. He poured ‘I love you’ like a shower in a hot
summer afternoon and let our curve be exposed
and have us dream of Heaven. He just watched
without even trying to dry up our revealed bodies
and thus left us in this empty lonely wilderness.
How can we make up for this insult? We tried
to punish this man with stones. Jesus, writing
something on the ground, breaks silence.
Whoever among you doesn’t have lust stone
him. At his words, from old hag to young girl,
they discard stone of hate and leave. Jesus
to the man, where are those women who judge
you? I won’t judge you either. As a man myself,
I understand you, but do not see a woman
as a flower from now on. In Heaven, anything
will be more beautiful than flowers. Jesus words
– ‘I won’t judge you’ – how scary punishment
It is! A butterfly that was robbed of flowers
– wouldn’t it be a heroic death like a martyrdom
of Stephen if I rather were stoned to death?
She doesn’t have tears, I hear;
She can’t weep when dumped by a man.
So she used to kick man away first.
Giggling at the man holding his stick in agony,
She comforted her sorrow
that she couldn’t shed tears.
Alas! She can’t dump me, though;
In spite of those many crappy days together.
She might be humiliated by not being able to cry
If deserted by me.
She can’t enjoy throwing me away
She can’t do anything about loving somebody.
She says she doesn’t need tears.
She weeps with her whole body.
She sheds tears through her feeble flesh.
Tears doesn’t come out only from eyes, I should say
Shedding tears is not the same as weeping, is it?
She is always sobbing even without tears.
In this way, I am stuck in her,
since I can’t make her weep;
woman who can’t shed her tears….
stripped naked by my own well-cherished ego
not because of others’ eyes being disturbed but
because of my private part’s being exposed.
you have that just like us!
that’s why I enjoy nude beach video
daydreaming I am in there.
I can show my dark corners of my body
without shame but
how can I show my bottomless pits of
my mind, my soul, my spirit at all?
the pits are my private parts?
if not, who’s parts are those?
well, just like I want to give my all hidden body parts
to beautiful eves full of carnal desire,
who’s going to have all my shady mind, soul and spirit?
I am who I am.