She always seemed
to be dressed in grey
the parson’s daughter
and had little to say
but there she’d be
on the school bus
each day
a few seats in front
looking out
of the window
and you’d gaze at her
and wonder what thoughts
occupied her mind
and what feelings
ran along her nerves
and that time she fainted
and people muttered things
and you caught words
like must be that
time of month
or she gets that way
when it comes around
and you’d think
of moon shapes
and the moon’s pull
and maybe her father’s
long drawn out sermons
were too much for her
and the time
she looked back at you
on the bus
and you noticed there
a multitude of different
worlds and feelings
swirling around
and maybe one of them
was for you
and the way
you too
sat quiet
and said little
not one
for the small talk
or nit-picking chat
and having a bit more
of young love
which others
might lack
and you smiled at her
but she didn’t smile back.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem