A Creole Woman
With her skin all over the castle breath,
growing so fine and fiery,
waiting for men through the spring,
countless as a dozen,
I wait for my turns to give her my passion
in red roses.
Are they in full range, a moment for me,
which I need only a minute to comply,
the faith of a man in love?
Oh, my creole woman!
Crowned de bloom,
as the birds that was born
in which the world exposition is now mine
in full.
Copyright © George Zamalea | Year Posted 2014
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