Of what silk are your fingers made,
Of what ivory your smooth thighs,
From what heights did reach your pace
The suede grace of your step.
From what ripe berries did they squeeze
The acidulous taste of your breasts,
From what India the bamboo of your waist,
The gold of your eyes, from where does it come.
In what swaying waves do you search for
The serpentine line of your hips,
Where is it born, the fountain freshness
That comes from your mouth when you laugh.
From what marine forests came loose
The coral leaf of your veins,
What perfume announces you when you come
Encircling me with desire at dead hours.
[ José Saramago, "Inventário", Os poemas possíveis, 1966 ]