she lays there
her legs spread on the table
like a turkey
dinner
he kneels
and surrenders all that he has owned
he breathes
and then takes time
to take back what he has exhaled
it is a picture of having to give
and having to take
someone may call it love perhaps
but actually
it is not what is intended to be
it is but a portrait
and nothing else
it is still life
it is nothing but the connivance of the brush
and the paint
and the keeping that lies within the boundary
of the frame
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem