If only I could write you a sonnet,
Iambic pentameter and what not,
Let my muse mull profoundly upon it.
I must write it quickly lest I forgot.
It will have to stress real passion, love,
Mention a rose if I really must
But for heaven's sake leave out the white dove,
Still do mention the red moon that I trust.
Compare her eyes to some fragrant flower,
And wish to taste her full strawberry lips,
Scheme to meet her in a quiet bower,
Clouds enfold us in mythical eclipse.
Will she come, will she go, my marigold?
Ah, my poor love sonnet has now gone cold.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem