To compare the sun to you,
the feathered sun,
slipping
through the ocean's every shade of blue,
slipping in and out of every heart,
but mostly out of mine
I cannot do this to you.
I'm not that cruel.
To compare your heart to any heart,
it would make me a fool.
Why don't you realise
that you're more
more beautiful than my poems.
I'm tired of making you my muse.
I'm worthess, I'm not like you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem