first love is the smell of her hair
because she is not ready for a kiss
later the two of you write
that was what you did back then
even a letter is like eyes meeting
she touches the paper with perfume
mile adds to mile and year to year
she will go her way and you yours
but when you are alone and old
some winter nights you will recall
auburn curls brushing your cheek
dancing in spring with her mystery
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The marvellous two last verses! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !