Tried out something kind of cool with this one: transliterated this and turned the sounds into what seemed right. Here is a version of the original (didn't read it until after I wrote mine). I recommend this trick to people who want to depart from their usual styles.
Here, poppyseeded, tulip-rooted girl,
I've brought you something your myopic eyes can read.
No more running between pools of hot and cold water,
no nestling myself within your three houses.
The cabbage still quivers in the springtime fields;
the round jingle metal hum leads to summer;
my loyal pinto plays the existential philosopher;
and thieves scavenge like yesterday.
But, cream-filled bundt, we pair in the ranches
repeatedly, you so close to the hairs on my body.
We've built our own philosopher's farm for golems
with my bulbs and your mineral-rich tears.
Together we are the rushing of the river over the rocks,
and January cannot freeze us, we are May:
holy in the cellar stairwell, holy at the dusty crossroads,
holy rooms, holy boxes, holy honeypots.
So if I proposed a new Wednesday education
and nudged you toward a voting booth
no more could you run me with your arguments,
no more would I nestle in your three houses,
and I would pay you back for mud and seriousness
and chalk up the velvet, vulgar words you make me think.
And in your maroon chair, open this letter,
and look, and read slowly, and consent.