the dove with the purest
of feathers
is in my room, white as snow,
naive as a roof, easy on the rain,
soft on itself, wordlessly,
as i caress it, and kissed its beak
and hold its wings, and then i release
it as my secret to the world,
and in the morning, it comes back
again, to be my secret once more.
there is no word to describe us.
no one asks what love is.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem