She has summer written on her face
A smile
A laugh
And heat
There's nothing to keep her
From moving year to year
And when she's finished here
She'll go.
I died eleven times
The first from so many disappointments
The second - held back rage
The third from unfulfillment
The fourth, a photo fade
From unrequited love
And From a love returned
From death disease and hunger
From a longing I let burn
But what killed me most of all
Was not any strong or pent up fear
But the tenderness I choked on
When you needed me near.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem