When my dress is too short
Or the neckline too low;
When I cover little
And laugh, and talk
And live more;
When I prefer to choose
And deny to follow;
When I pat your back
And share few jokes;
You gossip.
Your whispers turn into a roar.
Exasperated, you glare.
I must be lewd.
I just be labelled
Characterless.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Of course, the poetess is right.