My Rose

Anita Bacha

My Rose

I watch you in my garden early morning,

Your petals wide open, yawning;

I tenderly hug you to sip the dew of your lips,

Forgetful of the green prickly tips,

Under your enticing scarlet folds;

A dew of blood on my finger unfolds,

My rose,

Feverishly I blot with my lips

The dew of your lips,

Dew as sweet as lovers’ first kiss.

Anita Bacha

YOUR TOUCH

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