When I was sixteen and it was Spring,
I met in a park under the umbrella
of a tree in the rain,
a lithe, young Hindu girl
named Shanta;
It was my first and last kiss.
She promised to meet me the next day.
I returned, she did not
I walked by her home
and stood under the tree every day
for a week,
then once a month for a year,
then once a year through the rest of my life.
And since losing her face in the bodies
of other women,
I learned this...
that the days of love
are less then the years of their loss!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful and gripping in its stark honesty - excellent job, John!