In the 'warmth' of Winter
She curled me in her glory like shiny Jupiter
I shivered in the warmth without breath
She held me with tenderness like a wreath
I knew I'd leave, but in me she'd live
She never gave me one reason to leave
I always thought it would in her make reason
She saw not much of reason like season
I joyed in her embrace like a bracelet
She carved out of her embrace a facet
I have gloried in this mystery
She must have dismissed this as history
I still wisely think of her keenly
She must stupidly think of me stupidly
I am the author and the scriptwriter
She is the actor and the fighter
I am whom am not; she is whom she is
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem