Blowing, crossfire,
The wind never forgives those standing in the way.
As I was, when you came
across the street,
to the park.
You wore a red dress,
and thong flip-flops,
and your toe with a ring of a flower.
And the wind blew your hair,
and it must have blew you too,
for when I raised my head after looking down
for a moment
you were not there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem