Stained glass on a winter’s day. I read your diary backwards.
Tea hot in the cup, the sugarbowl empty and, yes, rain beginning to fall outside.
Green eyes turning hazel in the sunlight.
Laughter on the skin of a peach.
Tell her this morning nothing is as sweet as the kiss on her lips, as though nothing might be more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem