I have never loved,
as a woman should love.
I have always been wait-wait-waiting,
never chasing the train,
only an empty pot to his sleek spoon.
O, gentle waking fist,
my limb, a strength,
you have been killed!
and the puddle, it cushions the downpour-
holding, keeping,
the dirt, the mud, the rocks.
For I have never been the rain,
free to fall, to collapse and be caught,
I have never watered the growing,
nor colored the pale.
I am only a waist, a knee,
a cry, cry, cry!
And he, wingless,
has settled upon the fig leaf,
showing his back-skin,
a closeness that has been lost.
His mouth has never become a truth,
and his painter's hands
have never dared to touch the paint.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
woah hold the phone intensity deepness! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! wow! insane awesomly insane love this! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Such meaning wow! Lylyanna