I often meet him,
The gentleman
In the fifties
With the balding hair,
But dyed brown
And with the French-cut beards
Over the chin
And with an attaché,
The golden-framed specs
Over the face,
Maybe a little bit old
But his heart is not,
A man ever ready
To jog in the park
In the shorts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem