Extraído de A Portrait of The Artist as a Young Man, de James Joyce:
"A glow of desire kindled again his soul and fired and fulfilled all his body. Conscious of his desire she was waking from odorous sleep, the temtress of vis villanelle. Her eyes, dark and with a look of languor, were opening to his eyes. Her nakedness yielded to him, radiant, warm, odorous and lavish limbed, enfolded him like a shining cloud, enfolded him like water with a liquid life: and like a cloud of vapour or like waters circumfluent in space the liquid letters of speech, symbols of the element of mystery, flowed forth over his brain."
Pronto. Em um parágrafo você descobre o que é inspiração, e entende como funciona. E de uma coisa dessas acima, sai uma coisa dessas abaixo:
I don't want to possess,
for I want him to want to come home to me.
I want him to need me consciously.
I don't want to own either,
for I want him to have the choice to always stay.
I want him to choose to stay, every day.
I want to be intimate,
for this is the only way I feel like one entire person,
not a shard
not a piece
of a woman who lacks something.
I love him deeply.
I need him strongly.
I want him with me.
And I feel calm enough to wait.
Wait for him to come back,
Wait for his arms,
Wait for his eyes,
Wait for his love,
In a bit,