Our war:
Reconnaissance of glances,
The trenches of laborious waiting,
Ambushes and your hair's advances,
And traps of words,
Their sweetest baiting

Is smoldering
To hide the languor . . .
The coming night is slow,
It lingers -
One careless move! -
And here is clangor
Of swift assault of lips and fingers.

Then your eyelashes,
Like the lariats,
Will knock me down -
Where is my power? -
Your breast,
The real battle chariots,
Will crash and blow away my flower.

You will be captured by my fever,
Exhausting ride,
Sighs of explosions;
Caught by the flow of mighty river,
Brought to the ocean of emotions . . .

Choking, and leaping up,
And wincing
At drawing million trembling bowstrings,
Sending the arrows to the crimson,
Alleviated by these nostrums,

I'll bolt inside,
The flushed hot legion,
And in the center of the town,
The sacrosanct of your religion,
With savage moans
I'll tumble down . . .

Much later,
Consciousness recovered,
Mated and no more armor-plated,
We'll get up satiated
Toward
The triumph
To be celebrated.

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