The blind owl
She is there; on my bed
Has long hair, long-long hair
The kind that can convert
Days to night, nights to day.
Her make-up; rosy cheeks and pink lips
Large are eyes and black, like my days
Eyebrows arch of bows, no arrows.
Has no warmth when I reach; is an owl.
Where has gone the old man?
He knows lot…I must ask.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem