You said to me: You write about everything
But you have never written a poem for me.
If I am defensive it will not help us
There is no joy in wounding the woman with whom you sleep
Poetry does not produce money
Like the cobbler’s children you are the last to have shoes
But unlike the cobbler’s kid
These words can’t protect you
From even a little snow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem