Please do not stick your hand in my skirts,
Perhaps I am painted,
My little hand is itching,
Again and again
You want to seize my breast,
Even my heart.
Now perhaps you will ruin my body painting.
You will lie watching
The coming of the green quechol bird flower.
I will put you inside of me.
Your chin lies there.
I will rock you in my arms.
It is a quetzal popcorn flower,
A flamingo raven flower.
You lie on your flower-strewn mat.
It lies there inside . . . no longer.