Hair bobs around a face
of Nefertitian beauty:
She sits with an arm
draped over the arm
of a chair,
her green sleeve bends
from the stiff leaves
of a potted plant
shooting out of a clay urn.
Another sits, leaning
against the wicker, resting
her chin on a bended knee-
her eyes closed
and placid.
The girl in green
runs a hand
through the shoulder-length hair
of the other.
I feel that hand scratch
through my hair, the nails
separating the greying ends,
the tips of her fingers
resting
as if on my skin.
My neck cranes at the touch.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem