For managing to love
an object of scorn,
they place around my neck
a garland of threats.
And the world is cold this winter,
cold as the matrimonial column
they lecture to my sewn-shut ears,
or the stares that stalk
the woman of my choice.
But the cherries are pink
and festive as her love.
Leave cherries to winter, mother,
love to seasoned lovers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
But the cherries are pink and festive as her love. Leave cherries to winter, mother, love to seasoned lovers. very fine conclusion love ur poem.. tony