THE morning is cold
lit by the angry flint in your eyes
and i, who love you, perhaps love you
more, couldn't care less,
perhaps this is not love at all,
or perhaps it is,
unaffected by what you are, despite
the anger that burns the beauty of
that flower that in early morning
starts to bloom.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem