Earth come down around her shoulders
And say to the bereaving mountains that she does
Not work at the fruit market anymore:
But she has gone up onto the shoulders of
Her husband—
And what she can see from there:
Flea markets basking in their grottos, and soft,
Unmolested ways back to Mexico:
Her eyes—oceans—
But she is entirely dependent and too far away
For me to buy her flowers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
wow, lovely poem. loved it.