My Rose

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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IF

IF

If I were a flower for the joy of being a flower,

A leaf for being a leaf;

If I were a stem;

If I were a leaf and a stem to dress up a flower;

If I were a flower that you will place on your heart;

If I were all sleek and purple petals,

Petals to cover the nudity of a flower;

If I were a flower that you will place on your heart;

If I were the eyelids for the delight of being the eyelids,

The lashes for being the lashes;

If I were the eyes;

If I were the eyelids and the lashes to cover your eyes;

If I were a teardrop,

A teardrop running down a cheek,

A teardrop that loses itself in the lips;

If I were the lips that caress a flower;

If I were the lips and you were a flower!

Anita Bacha

 

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