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The Rose Graden

R

Robert Harrison

Guest
The Rose Garden

She drew her finger across my lips,
To hush my words.
I smelt the fragrance of her perfume
And tasted its herbs.
Scents, not bought from the salon
Or Channel of Paris.
These were freely given by that same
Dust which made man.
She offered up her lips to be kissed.
Her flowering rose garden
Was, for a short while forgotten.
For in our sensual embrace,
We were lovers again, and in our desire
For new fragrances,
Planted the seeds of remembered kisses.
 
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