Watch the pink fingernails, painted “Coral Carousel”,
a sunset on the tips shining like a new form of raptures.
But a sun is always sinking on those fingers gripping the pen
whose midnight ink is chanting
“no” again and again and again,
almost as persistent as her pallor, hanging like a blank screen.
So capricious next to her cloudy eyes,
that pink shouts the “yes” of the daylight its color captures;
it flashes shades of purples joyfully as letters shoot up and bend.
They move as bright spots against a dark signature.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem