Said the face at my door
‘I have not missed you more
than in these months of late.
To this day, I pine
to make you mine
for that is the wish of fate.'
The face looking back
closed the door to a crack
and whispered, ‘This must be a dream.
Not once before
have you been at my door
and been as real as you seem.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem