Poet, translator and writer of many books of poems. She is interested in literature and culture studies.
Don't turn your head, let me love your secret lips,
Outside the fallen winds waiting for the miracle to happen,
The Flakes of snow falling over the frozen rooftop, can you hear?
Dry apples lie on the white paths of November, terrible, dead!
Don't panicked. I am only a natural, gentle human being
Who wants love and be loved and nothing else?
Outside the insipid sun burns like a dim candle, easy to see
And difficult to gaze,
Like the shadow that runs over the bleak horizon,
In every winter the sun dries out of tuberculosis,
Dry and dry and die,
Come near me! For the paths are dead and it's a barren November.
© 2021 Ilina Jones