Rimbaud's Left Hand

With her slender stem of legs,

And the flowing red gown,

And frothing smile on the lips,

She reminded me of

Rimbaud's left hand.

Even from a distance,

I could smell the inviting fragrance, 

Of the rose water.

It took me to the courtyard, back home,

Where wild roses bloomed in plenty.

I wanted to pluck all those wild blooms,

From her, that went into the making of the rose water.

Was it the child in me who was curious,

Or the lascivious aroused man in me?

I wanted my eyes to get drowned,

In the beautifully intoxicating cocktail.

My heart faltered its beat like the steps of a drunkard.

My hands longed after the Rimbaud's left hand,

Smiling ever so mischievously before my eyes.