d. h. lawrence e as odes ao corpo feminino iii

figs [continued]

folded upon itself, and secret unutterable,
and milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricotta,
sap that smells strange on your fingers, that even goats won't taste it;

folded upon itself, enclosed like any mohammedan woman,
its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen,
onw small way of acess only, and this close-curtained from the light;

fig, fruit of the female mystery, covert and inward,
mediterranean fruit, with your covert nakedness,
where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilisation,
and fruiting
in the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see
till it's finished, and you're over-ripe, and you burst to give up
your ghost.

till the drop of ripeness exudes.

and the year is over.

in d. h. lawrence, os animais evangélicos e outros poemas
(lx, relógio d'água, 1994)