Her hair is red
and brown,
Slanted over her forehead,
it makes a laugh
And I sing.
She does not listen her music,
Just sing along with me
and lets her red roses all
over the floor,
Slipping, scratching, sinking
Her hands into my hands,
We sing together a few smiles
and listen she plays the guitar
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem