Never transplant a poet's heart.
It wouldn't start.
Or, if it did, would stop
at some seemingly minor shock.
The vena cava is much too slender,
the endocardium, much too tender.
It takes a life-time to learn to live
with a heart so horribly sensitive.
Graft the skin and kidneys.
Interchange the brains.
But never, never transplant a poet's heart.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem