They say write what you know, but I'm a little fed up with convetion at the moment. I wrote this as a wife, watching her dream marriage fall apart.
The warmth of my pink bedroom wall
that I press my hand to,
in the dark,
ddin't seem so fixed or stark.
My pillows being a feathery pair and all
I'd condescend to them,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem