You turn
and gaze down
at Ness
by the stream,
her back bent,
her arm pecking
at the canvas
like a hungry bird.
You remember one like her,
the long hair
down the back,
the eyes
a piercing blue,
the mouth sensual,
full of words.
She has that sensuality
you fear, mistrust and lack.
You let your eyes
move over
her figure
like a sculptor,
smoothing out,
feeling the rough
and smooth, sensing
the secret places
where darkness looms,
easing out sharpness
and unwanted pieces.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem