A guitarist plucking on the G-sting,
your hand, a feather against mine
come a little closer if you please,
and I’d speak to you the secret of wine.
Wrap yourself in your hand-crafted scarf,
and make a little room me too, for this night
has now shed its only layer of clothing
and urges me to have only you in sight.
A melody from a base-less speaker –
the treble mildly terrible on the ears;
no track of the composition, as of yet –
that which a soul adores, it wears.
Have I worn you under my skin,
or have I let your gaze flow in my veins?
am I to be a sun’s flower for you,
is it the sun or is it you, to which it leans?
Illustrated by Beatrix Potter