I've considered the woman perched aside the stovetop,
Zesting an orange
I've pondered the way her locks of hair screen the worry on her face.
The smoke of the simmering pot curls its way to her lips.
What I've yet to consider...
Is the way a teardrop descends her cheek
And the clouds above--
Gazing at her through the stained glass
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem