Until you became a woman, only
Baglione knew a girl with legs like yours.
He gave them to the angel of Sacred Love.
At the end of my bed you raise your foot
to buckle your sandal, and become a siren
of profane love as the hem slips up your thigh.
Groaning, I beg you to come back to bed.
You coquette out of the room, leaving me
to contemplate the nature of love and lust.