The grape-picker holds out
his hand full of fruit but turns
his face, the slight, unavailable cast
of his head his most precious possession.
The woman who cleans your house
all day is in the places you can't be,
touches your sheets.
You hate
what is held back,
not known to you,
kept, stolen, enchanted.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem