I know for myself
That her love for me
Is like an inaudible prayer
That God never hears.
When she dresses
In front of the mirror
I realize her black dress
And matte red lipstick
Were never intended
To slip into my dreams
Like a supple breeze.
Her soft words
And inviting eyes
Are simply a debilitating vision
By a mirage-filled mind.
But what does she mean
In giving me her number
At a restaurant table
As I gaze into a vase
Of lavender flowers?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem