I breathe a word,
which none but one heard.
I wait and wait, for I love her dear.
But her heart has one, her own dear.
Her face, as beautiful as any rose of any place merry.
Her lips, red and dark as ripe cherry.
Her voice sweet,
steady to the beat.
No matter, if I am to be expose to her hate,
for I shall wait, and wait.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem