My love has looks that kill, daggers in eyes,
Of scented words, but venom in her tongue,
A minute more of her, your longing dies,
Another word, and you're with satires stung;
I know of raiment fine; her clothes can't hide,
Her being dressed is such as chickens are,
The times with her that silence most deride,
I often spend by viewing films of war;
Her attributes, the Fates have given, yet
Unlike Medusa, turned me not to stone;
But mark, that faintest star in darkness set,
Could be the brightest when alone has shone;
………The beauty to which eyes despaired,
………Excels best when to lesser peers compared.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem