The air is bracing where your high breasts rise.Around their peaks I breathe with greater ease.Yet I descend, beloved, by degrees,Cheap bastard that I am, towards your thighs. Your carnal hip is naked and asleep,So lily-like it makes my halo blush.I long to kiss it, though, therefore I rush, Down from your breasts whose brows ascend so steep. "Scandalous to some, worshipped by others, generating sweet, voluptuous-erotic dreams, Emil Brumaru's (b. 1939) literature is born out of an 'impossible' concoction of innocence and triviality, delight taken in uttering juicy words and shyness when it comes to action, traditionalist prosody and a vocabulary meant to shock a prim nature, nostalgia and grotesque, adolescent purity and the transformation of feminine beauty into bloodcurdling fleshy forms." (Tudorel Urian)
by Emil Brumaru (b. 1939)
