Only we recall
the hours of awful practice,
trying to sing it:
our ears battling
for the perfect pitch of two
pure notes, meant to be
close seconds, but more
like needle and magnet, or
brooches - half-hanging,
hinged to a vest and
scarf, ’till we got it. Just so:
twin zones, poles apart.
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I would like to translate this poem
hours of awful practice, good poem, thanks. I invite you to read my poems and comment and vote.