Poem Hunter
(04 October 1943 / Germany)


Your pubic hairs did tickle,
there on the grassy slope
I say all time is fickle
it never talks of hope.

We touched and talked for hours
the minutes oozed to ground
surrounded by fine flowers
we held what we had found.

Today we're reminiscing
how precious each short day
somehow a kiss is missing
our past has gone away.

We never knew to treasure
each moment that we had
our souls have stored the pleasure
of that we must be glad.

I hold you, my sweet lover
now knowing the above,
let's stay beneath this cover
make babies and make love.

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