Port – Vladimir Mayakovsky

The sheets of waters under the belly were.
They were ripped into waves by a white tooth.
There was a howl of a trumpet - as if it was pouring
love and lust copper pipes.
Boats cuddled in the entrances cradles
to the nipples of iron mothers.
In the ears of deafened steamers
burning anchor earrings.

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Mikhail Lermontov