The tail of the damsel-fly
blown up a bit with blue.
She taps, as she would
a murder weapon.
But it's OK. Three blues, belts, gleam.
My lover passed away
(a little fat, he always sank the boat),
though I don't like boys
and no-one's died on me.
Translated into English by Justin Quinn
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It's a wonderful poem, indeed. Thanks for sharing.