Perhaps it is clichéd to denounce cliché,
but I have to question the value
of marking the colour of your eyes.
They might be brown, blue, red, green -
They are your eyes and yours alone,
and that is enough for me to love.
I might spend time on your hair;
call it the sun or a season.
Yet it might be a season in hell
and still be yours – yours alone,
and that is more than enough to love.
I might splash a sonnet on your lips,
call them the pearly gates
or some other thing,
but they are only your lips,
unique, and too much to love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem