Her eyes scan restlessly
a thousand faces rhapsody
why don't they just close
or is it for the tip of her nose
pointing into this world untold
these pictures are like soup on her dish
a competition between the two
they do slowly turn inwardly
to sculpt for her a better world
where she can put her own mould
too. M
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem