I want to love a poet.
To love their callused palms,
And worn fingers,
And their eyes,
Are timeworn and frigid,
But oh their mind,
What a heavenly place to be.
Within the curve of their lips,
And sharpness of speech,
With breathes so light,
And to watch their lungs grow
And fall
Is a glory in itself
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem should be any poet's delight, to read and to savour. Very well written. If I may know, what makes you think that a poet's palms be 'calloused'?