The Moon has left the sky many nights
Yet your silence has not begun to lift
Your countenance is strangely heavy
Your demeanor appears uninviting
And my mind is awhirl with confusion
Your hush is a bow bent towards me
The mark of your taciturn quiver
A thousand laconic arrows at me
Churning and ripping me inside out
I'm paralyzed, bewildered, and mum
I can't discern the seeming aloofness
Forgive me of any blameworthy act
Grant me your floral effulgent glance
A smile to brighten my dejected mood
To surcease this sadness that's creeping
By beholding your endearing ardor.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem