He's raven-haired,
burgundy-skinned-
the epitome
of the autumn landscape.
He scorches me
with the firelight in his eyes.
His steps heavy as stampedes,
crack the ground under my feet.
He's the soar of swallows,
the flits of butterflies.
He's strawberry-flavored rain,
whose words I drink.
His mouth is a tunnel
leading me to the light.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem