Her january lost, while writing him poems
sending them across his land, like war mines
ready to explode under his feet
spreading shrapnels of her unique love,
in the direction of his heart
in hope that one would hit him.
'If Cupid is out of arrows, it's up to me then.' she thoug...BOOM!
...and a little blush appeared on her freckled cheek.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem