Sometimes it happens like a dream. Their lips had never met until that moment. Drawing her close, he kissed her carefully, thoughtfully, skillfully, his eyes wide open and locked with hers, brown on blue. They stood in the middle of a high meadow, knee-deep in wild flowers, before falling farther to the ground and further in love, their bodies completely hidden and exposed, both. The green grass, crushed by their weight, bled beneath them, staining their skin.
Yes, he remembers. Her hair was fragrant as clover spread all around; her skin salty and damp in the summer heat; her tongue and breath pink and sweet as mimosa; her fingers soft as a breeze before lifting his shirt like the hay wind. His head was buzzing—or maybe it was the bees swarming.
That was sixty years ago. Today, she was laid to rest. In that very spot. In the high meadow. Under the green, green grass. Now it's raining. Even the sky is crying.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem