The arms wide open to catch an embrace,
The drops of the water that dangle off,
As the beauteous walks off the shower,
The hairs wet and dripping, with the hair-dryer,
In the hand forcing the waters to vapors, but none could,
Speak, and the senses failed, the catcher was,
Neither alive nor deceased, for nothing would,
Be known as to why none of those falling drops,
Never ever could reach the ground, and what to,
Tell about those folded hands in anticipation.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem