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A country khmer woman
By S K MONOHA of Cambodia, France
The first day of spring, with bicycle, I saw at the village a country-woman
She releases the perfume, skillful in sarong, upright near a valve
My desire is so strong to know it, the emotion retained me in nature
her smile, her glances and her beauty, like a pure virgin
At this time, unceasingly rebounded me at this beautiful day, the good memory
The dream of love me bubbled in the visions in jam.
A beautiful spectacle, when I have the villagers divine work
And my eyes fixed on the beautiful person savagely
The noise of the bell on the neck of the cows sound with wonder
The pretty woman crosses the fields under the treittes
Suddenly, the breeze blows the branches of the tree and they are balalent
I dream that it endormé in my arms without violence.
The wind cherishes the song of this woman, a melodious voice
My heart beats with joy and my ears suspicious
The rain falls and sprinkles her sublime and gracious body
If of concern, sorrow and the wind brush her black hair huilesses
Of return to the house, my heart palpitates unceasingly very brutal
How to contribute so pure love of this country-woman without betraying her moral.
“In the life, it be necessary-being passion in love, and one should not say: Fountain, I will not drink your water, because words are wasted on a starving man".
By S K MONOHA of Cambodia, FranceThe first day of spring, with bicycle, I saw at the village a country-woman
She releases the perfume, skillful in sarong, upright near a valve
My desire is so strong to know it, the emotion retained me in nature
her smile, her glances and her beauty, like a pure virgin
At this time, unceasingly rebounded me at this beautiful day, the good memory
The dream of love me bubbled in the visions in jam.
A beautiful spectacle, when I have the villagers divine work
And my eyes fixed on the beautiful person savagely
The noise of the bell on the neck of the cows sound with wonder
The pretty woman crosses the fields under the treittes
Suddenly, the breeze blows the branches of the tree and they are balalent
I dream that it endormé in my arms without violence.
The wind cherishes the song of this woman, a melodious voice
My heart beats with joy and my ears suspicious
The rain falls and sprinkles her sublime and gracious body
If of concern, sorrow and the wind brush her black hair huilesses
Of return to the house, my heart palpitates unceasingly very brutal
How to contribute so pure love of this country-woman without betraying her moral.
“In the life, it be necessary-being passion in love, and one should not say: Fountain, I will not drink your water, because words are wasted on a starving man".
