The silk fabric whispers against my skin,
As I caress the curves with gentle hands,
Pressed against the sturdy tree within,
I yearn to be a sculptor, shaping lands.

Gliding over the model with my touch,
Feeling every peak and valley's grace,
With fingers tracing patterns, I clutch,
Creating art in this serene space.

No lustful thoughts invade this sacred place,
Just admiration for beauty's form,
I sculpt with love, a gentle embrace,
A peaceful moment in the midst of storm.

So let me be the sculptor of your soul,
With hands that mold and shape with care,
Together, we can create and extol,
The beauty found in all we share.

Tomaž Jevšenak