The meadow is teeming with flowers: daisies.
In front of me, two little girls
play "does he love me, or does he not love me?"
I look at their sweet faces,their doe eyes.
I observe them with such scruple,which I start to wonderwhen will come the day when, playing,they will ask the daisies:"Do I love myself, or do I not love myself?"
YOU ARE READING
Daisies
PoetryA collection of poems in which each poem was written in moments when the only way to put thoughts in order was to put them in black and white
