That was not an intrigue. You were on the palm of my hand, Like a wonderful book In a hard supercover. I was in love like a boy, With a quiet secret tremor, As I read our novel With indecent title. There were tears and threats, The same ones over and over, There was a lot of prose, And very few poems. Your stormy affections And other remaining means - Itís awful like in a fairy tale Of an early childhood. I was hoping secretly That no one would read you, But like from the library Too many people took you.                 I canít wait for the moment When even with delay, I will return the book With indecent title.
© Nathan Mer. Translation, 1991