Romance lies in the unavailability,
Yet not too far off, just bit out of reach.
The boss’s young wife, or neighbor’s son,
Slightest of chances - a look, a brush.
Mostly it is engendered suddenly,
But if it were planned and habitual,
Dreaming all the time, then it is lust,
And not the sunshine of romance.
Only a reflection on the mirror for
A look at Sir Lancelot across the lake, or….
Look! through the window on the left
The approach of two eager silhouettes!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem