A thousand thousand
thousand facsimilies,
forgeries at fifty paces.
A gesture, a glance,
the sleek line of a calf
brings you.
Closer inspection reveals
the faultless faults,
the perfect imperfections.
Stares that stray close
but could not provide the
warmth of those sky locked eyes
They are mere counterfeits,
copies of your original,
platonic ideal.
You are endless.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem