The chiselled cheek bones stuttered like speech,
Her nerves wrecked, she knocked the streets;
A small storm went so fast to say to grandmothers
Where she was situated to be a group of occupation.
Her friends supplied a memory of the sanity,
This singing was cafe, thoughts swung along the trees
Like monkeys in naughtiness, too sought by
Poachers, and their distinct enemies, of the other side.
The paranoid glare concerned her issues,
A sipped coffee-mug alerted the offices of hearts,
Their business suited her right,
The memory of a sin was of course the sight
Foretelling spiders of silk and rain.
The first on the corner witnessed her skin
Mix and chew at the icy streets of solid mud.
Everything sipped at the small storm
Facing her right now with annoyance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem