you present your
painting before her
she looks at it with
an eagle's eye
the next day your poem
is next and she reads it
aloud to you
and you are patient as you
listen
and you nod your head for
all those criticisms
it was her love which you
painted
same love that you wrote
in that poem
she is too cruel to say that
all these are works of
the mind
all imaginations
you nod your head and
you say yes, and she never knew
that it would be
hurting her most.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem