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To the One That Is Said to Be Cold


But I still love you!

You are not the most in love

Of those who took my flesh from me;

You are not the tastiest

Of my women from the other winter.

But I still love you!

Besides, your soft and benign body

Has everything, in its supreme calm,

So handsomely feminine,

Of so voluptuous without words,

From long-kissed feet

To those pure clear eyes of ecstasy,

But how well and better soothed!

From the young legs and thighs

under the young skin,

Through your smell of splints

And fresh crayfish, beautiful,

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Cute, discreet, sweet, little Thing

Barely shaded in slender gold,

Opening you in an apotheosis

To my hoarse and mute desire,

Up to the pretty infant's nipples,

From barely reaching puberty,

Up to your triumphant throat

In its slender Venuscy,

Up to those shining shoulders,

Up to the mouth, to the brow,

Naive with innocent

looks That the facts will deny,

Even the short curly hair like

The hair of a pretty boy,

But whose flow charms us, in short,

Among their unceremonious preparation,

Passing by the slow spine

Plump at pleasure, to the

sumptuous Ass, divine whiteness,

Curves worthy of your chisel,

How appropriate to salute again,

Up to the calves, firm delights,

Up to the heels of rose and gold!

Our knots were incorrigible?

No, but had their attraction to them.

Our fires were terrible?

No, but gave their warmth.

As for Point, Cold? No not, Cool.

I say that our "seriousness"

Was above all, and I don't care,

A better masturbation,

Although thoughtfulness

could also prepare you without more,

As they say, impropriety,

Boarder who means more to me.

And I keep you between my wives

Of regret, not without some hope

Of when perhaps we loved

And of doubtless having found each other again.

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