Love must be ungrateful or your interest must be
over rid by rude men. Who will believe that I
beautified all my comments for you? & your old
shrugs, like leftovers, could stretch the taste of
emptyness. I come to you, but a bit of bold-
you could be a fading sweet. My words will forever
live young through this antique pen. But you are no
different than any other beauty pattern: a men's
succession. Your mother must have forgotten to
teach you to plead for love, & your father, a romance
executive, could pardon my slow offense. Need I
say a little less? I show my strength by limping with
a disable arm. I am perfection by intentional mistakes.
Need I say more?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem