The way your gaze
beams round the room
and lights on me
and not by accident
I dare assume
makes my heart
pick up its pace
skip and why
it might be said
to even race.
In my bad ear
a crackle of static
makes me wonder
whether something's up
in this old attic;
makes me, for
the moment sure
I have not lingered
far too long
at this here fair;
so that in spite
of ruin and wrack
I can't be blamed
if I reflect
and send it back.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem