I am jealoused of Sylvia
Because he reads her poems,
He knowsher word by word,
Like he knows me,
When he said "Sylvia is the name of sadness",
My insides were ablaze.
He knows her sadness, he counts her woes…
He himselfis knitted with sadness I know,
I am jealoused of Tolstoy too,
He says "his characters carry the sadness of the reader"
He finds his books "cruel but seductive"
And my hearts turns to ashes when he takes the name "Anna Keranina"
Just a book I know,
But it burns me in jealousy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem