Anita Page's image wore well,
Rustling silk having carried her
But beneath her celluloid gaiety
And the nuance of her blonde curls.
I sensed something more apposite
The glint in her eye,
Reminding me of a mood dance,
Lasting deep into the scene.
A fluid transition into interpretation,
She felt the spoken word could not convey.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem