Dumbling,
the youngest,
pursued by the pond,
grew up waiting for someone
to do things for her,
grew up smiling
with a whine in her voice.
Never lost her high little girl laugh,
a titter, helpless shrug of the shoulders
cover the mouth with the hand
cajoling
I can't get this computer to work…
I can't open this bottle…
The older ones wanting
to throw her into the cistern,
the damned dreamer,
wearer of the multicolored cloak.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem