how foreign we havebecome now
it is the distance of heart that matters
it is not the look the fussed minute would allow
but the thought and afterthoughtthat flatters
it is not you but I
it is not I but you
till no tears are left to cry
to adeparture long overdue
how stale we have become now
and did it ever really matter
why we fussed the minute to allow
the interlude of flatter
It is not you but I
it is not I but you
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem