I had new sandals, and wore them to school,
cherry-red uppers with a cream-white sole,
her dress had a pattern like a Spirograph's -
of the same coffee colour I has in my pen.
Her hair was black, in a Romany style,
and we shared a bench, on a next-to -me desk,
she looked like Snow White, while I looked like me,
and our vows were strong, like snowflakes at christmas.
Yet - I grasp to recall her name,
lost in a primrose early spring.
She was as light as those sandals of red,
when first they were buckled, and I stepped from the shop.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem