Though your face is sparsely smearedWith the semblance of a beard –Mind you, not a beard as such –You do have that female touch.Your eyebrow line –Girlishly fine,Your underarm –Such maiden charm.Legs of a childAnd undefiled.As for your thighs,Their goodly sizeCasts nymph-like spells;Your ears – reminiscent of shells;Side curls with their lobes entwineLike the tendrils of a vineHanging loose and feminine.And – you freak! – like jessamineAnd like the tuberoseYour carcass stirs the nose.No sunshine tannedYour creamy hand,And your fingers arePerfect yet bizarre –Each akinTo its twin;Your fingers are serpentine,Glowing skin – mirabelle-fine.Every nail – a crystal scale.Darting eye – apt to impale,Your mouth, framed by fluffy curls,Is a buckle set with pearls. As you drink with lips like cherriesFrom the fountain, it miscarries.Girls, if they as much as seeYou, are prone to pregnancy,For your eyelid, as it flicks,Pricks them with three ant-like pricks. Could have been born of strings and bow,Or of a reed, or of a roe –The impregnated concubineOf some wraith of royal line,For never could you proceedFrom an ordinary breed.All gone contrary and stray,Who can tell the miry claySquelched at random by the hoofOf some creature beyond proof,With a snow-bound teat,With a mane of sleet,With ice for a horn,Of which you were born – Who could search and understand it?Nonetheless you're but a bandit. Here… come have a fag – you've earned it.
by Tudor Arghezi (1880-1967)
