I know a girl
Who has a big mole on her right cheek.
She lived some distance away
By the hillside with cashew trees.
Whenever she passed along the alleyway
By the side of my home
I would look at her, erasing that mole.
She would pass on, head bent.
Isn’t she the daughter of that
Woodcutter? She has no friends – said Mother.
Later, a woodcutter married her
And she had a family and children.
There are no cashew trees there now.
That there was something missing in my poems.
Isn’t it the problem of a big mole?