Without rest, perhaps without pauses or stops
As he tickles her strands with timely drops
Gold, her hair, milk, her skin
Down to her body, smooth and thin
Most of the time, she sleeps by his side
Forget about the blanket that's open wide
Weekdays, he's alone in a white prism
Bored and forsaken, just alive in rhythm
She can't talk nor cry, she knows nothing
But she's not deaf nor ignorant in feeling
She's special in her own unique way
In her angelic lullaby that no one could ever play
Sweet melody, flowing through his ears
Symphony, that's the only one he hears
She always loves to whistle, as he caresses her body
Tempo, beat, hands strum so moody
He summons her into his arms
To hear his beats and charms
Only a time when he misses erstwhile Andrea
To get his guitar embraced in warmth named Franchesca.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem