I walk a tight rope,
a little south of sanity.
The path, a few months old,
from that famished point.
I turned to her for love;
a barter tried with dough;
sweet, a dark brown stream,
and a monsoon shower of gilt.
While she removed the glass slipper,
with not an ounce of guilt.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem