A pregnant woman begs me a dollar in Times Square. I thrust my hand in the pocket and I ask her what she can offer me instead. She tells me she will give my name to her child.
Some seven days passed, now I look at her from the other side of the street: she kneels yet, reads a book, her round and brave womb doesn't care of the nearby skyscrapers.
Neither do I of the passing time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem