The cold grey light of morning
is creeping at the window;
you turn to me in your sleep,
burrowing over,
your face wan in half-light,
your lips half-open,
as though about to palely
speak.
But the warmth of you
is every colour,
carried by your blood,
running round my limbs,
a gentle glowing sea.
These are moments
that nothing can touch,
when you fold
the rainbow of your lovely self
softly into me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem