Her foot sleeved by a folded shawl.
Concealed like a snow crevice,
a thin blue vein running on the crown
of the white instep.
The poorly drawn girl, powdererd
beauty mark.
November studio, alcoholic gas jet.
Years later at an exhibition,
the artist looks off into space
as though posed center moon
for a self-portrait.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem