The troubadours of love (1)

I see you knit chrysanthemums and lilies
in your golden curls.
Innocent girl, rose unwithered
who gave them to you?
What was the endless hours telling you last night
and you became red and you were crying and laughing?
Pale, sweet virgin
who rocked your adolescent sleep?
Why early flourishes your flesh
and your supple body shudders
till its tips?
Your lips, the red cherries
who is the one who harvested them?
What sinful and heady aroma
it is overflowing from your bed sheets?
And what sign like blood
is hugging you and descends to the chest?
Who gave you to smell the virgin
lily?
Wake up lightsome girl
from your adolescent sleep
and look at your legs and your naked body
you are no longer pure
you became a woman …