Gustav Klimt - O beijo

No Aniversário de Gustav Klimt, recupero um post do Dia Internacional do Beijo. Um dos meus "beijos" favoritos.

Gustav Klimt, The Kiss, 1907-08

Short Story on a Painting of Gustav Klimt 

       by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

They are kneeling upright on a flowered bed
   He
       has just caught her there
                                 and holds her still
      Her gown
                     has slipped down
                                               off her shoulder
    He has an urgent hunger
                           His dark head
                                      bends to hers
                                                  hungrily
And the woman the woman
     turns her tangerine lips from his
            one hand like the head of a dead swan
                   draped down over
                                                 his heavy neck
                      the fingers
                         strangely crimped
                                     tightly together
       her other arm doubled up
                      against her tight breast
                           her hand a languid claw
                                                        clutching his hand
                               which would turn her mouth
                                                                         to his
       her long dress made
                             of multicolored blossoms
                                    quilted on gold
       her Titian hair
                    with blues stars in it
       And his gold
                          harlequin robe
                                            checkered with
                                                        dark squares
       Gold garlands
                     stream down over
                                             her bare calves &
                                                 tensed feet
Nearby there must be
                a jeweled tree
                        with glass leaves aglitter
                            in the gold air
It must be
               morning
                           in a faraway place somewhere
They
       are slient together
                                 as in a flowered field
           upon the summer couch
                                 which must be hers
  And he holds her still
                                 so passionately
        holds her head to his
                             so gently so insistently
           to make her turn
                               her lips to his
Her eyes are closed
                              like folded petals
She
     will not open
                        He
                            is not the One