“There is no rainbow, ” my lover claimed,
though she craned her neck and turned her head
on the afternoon of summered rain
that left my love as though for dead.
Banks of clouds churned and creamed,
a sensible buffer to the honeyed day;
and as though awaking from a dream,
she cast my undying love away.
Yet, no matter how hard she tried,
all she saw was the surly storm;
she couldn’t spot a rainbow of any kind,
just the ruined fields of wheat and corn.
She could not see the clouds depart,
nor feel the sunlight expose her heart.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem