Flap of cotton or fine black wool
spun to a sheen, magenta and yellow
cabbage-roses printed on phantasmagorical
greenery, or an aerial map of operatic
paisley, colors bilious, choleric, sanguine;
folded, two corners tied beneath the chin,
instantly estranges and ages,
says, when the foreign face turns away, “I show you
the garden you believe it is impossible I am.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem