I don't know the constitution that happens
but the make up matters: they see her novelty
or measure her from the bra over the top
I see the rain take off her underwear outside
the trousers that challenge liberty and pride:
she curls around to hide what she wears inside
and reveals much more, her flame and fragmented being,
the day's fabric in frail linen, dying night and
an absence: I see the colour change to cover;
to make distances from the moral remains
and shadows of lowing cows in a dried pasture
mate with throbbing dreams that look for space in the eyes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem