She…
…with her hair, black as the moonless nights over the Bosphere…
…her slender deer eyes hide inside a piece of sky mirrored in the glacial lochs spoilt by the cool breeze of mountain pine forests…
…her mother-of-pearls forehead hide both unthinkable sadness and joys and when she smiles, all the rainbows turn pale and unlit…
…her small and lithe nose seem to cut the warm zephyr of the balcanic mornings, imbued with perfume of olive trees bloomed to only caress her nostrils soft as the Babylon’s velvet…
…her cheeks, at a glance, remind you of sweet apples of your lost childhood once upon a time in grandmother’s orchard…
…you could pick up from the lit embers of her lips all the strawberries and cherries of May…
…her nymph neck, carved in Indian cypress seem to only exist to wear the black pearls of the Red Sea, culled by colonial slaves of the past and dead centuries…
…her naughty siren body sends back for another millennium on Ionic Sea’s bottom the amphora of the decadent Greece and make them pale by the shame of their imperfection…
…her hands, two transparent ivory tartar totems, polished in platinum powder, born to be worshiped, to be held all the time in the hollow of a man’s hands…
…her breasts, non-obedient and revolted, remind of the sanguinity of the entire female part of the Latin race and raise inside man wild ancient impulses…
…her ankle, kissed and polished by the bitter salt of all oceans of the Earth, hide semi-deep and unclear shadows in her step…
She…