Exotic is a word
that rings
inside my ears
like violins.
Sounds of great beauty
rising up with grace
into the evening sky.
The Maistro hesitates
then turns
and climbs the stairs
into the spire
where Martin Luther wrote,
and thought,
where one late night
the Devil knocked
to cast false dice,
exotic was the walk
alone,
Canossa, it was his.
The world is filled
with things,
exquisite hues
and crystals of
fine angel tears.
But YOU, my LOVE,
you are so far beyond
that there can never be
a word for you,
none would suffice
and that is why I write,
I offer you my soul,
it is a simple one
and claims no great noblesse,
perhaps you'd let me
shower you
with ordinary ones,
those kisses
that transfixed the time
obscurely
like the flower
by that happy name.

Herbert Nehrlich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/good-day-my-love/