Of course, you have not met her,
Loveness, the sunshine of the city,
once the honey-pie of the ghetto,
the sugar-loaf of the township
and now the ice-cream cone itself.
The white mini-skirt clung to her figure
like icing on a cake.
her breasts plunged ram-horns
in the hearts of men.
Her fried eggs broke a marriage contract
now Tito's home is a village wound
that babbles with the gossip
and the bitter cries of a mother.
Tattered, the children's bottoms
have taken the hue of ash-earth.
Sam, the little one
has a head the size of two footballs
his bones and ribs
cry for an enumerator.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem