Not beautiful
In a conventional sense.
The dark hair
That becomes matted easily
Or appears in strange disguises
As the trainees at the hairdressing school
She uses for cheapness
Experiment on her.
Dresses in colours and styles
That don't really suit
Her plumpish figure.
The large fleshy nose.
The sallow skin.
The walk that is more of a waddle.
Yet this has to be love
As she runs, waddling
Towards me
At the tube station
Where we have arranged to meet.
The twinkling brown eyes flashing,
That broad smile of welcome
Displaying perfect white teeth,
The life
Energy
Enthusiasm
Spilling out from her eyes
Her smile
Her every gesture
Drawing me in
To a world of total mutual engagement.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
well, that's love! ; P