The tips of your fingers on the back of my head
They run so free, weaving each thread
Crocheting a blanket in the soul of my hair
Aiding the eyes of a blind man's stare
The beauty inside is never felt
With calloused hands, the cards are dealt
Beneath the birch I siphon the spades
As my name on the granite chooses to fade
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem