Pure white cloth
kept in a box
soiled by mechanic-hands
black unwashable stains.
Handy for hamburger-hands
greasy fingers pulling at paper smells
or for grazed knees and their muddy
unconcerned faces.
Or even for wiping tears from cheeks
on a dark night by the sea -
their scent and dampness yours, baby.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem