You are sitting
on a stool
looking directly
(unnervingly)
of me.
One leg
casually raised
(unafraid of your nudity)
the other stretched out
as far as it will go
on the tiled floor
as if you were a chess piece
come alive.
You are an oil painting.
And this
oil painting
of you
now sits
upon the stool
that you sit upon
in the painting.
I gaze back at it
Imagining the sweat
on your upper lip
the realness
of your kiss
until dusk
gathers you up
and hides you
from my loneliness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
As ever, your sense of pathos, the sadness of lost love....amazes me. How well you recall the depth of loneliness, and write about it.