In echoing metallic emptiness
of international air terminals
I often saw her, hurrying,
incredibly pretty, impossible
for me, or sitting, exhausted,
or jumping up and down, calling for a taxi.
I saw her in the crowds of universities,
cool and composed in dishevelled societies.
I saw her running a dreamy finger
on library shelves and worn-out covers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem