I envy the cling of the shirt you wear that, even in daylight, can be indiscreet and trace your torso's outline and dare to wrinkle coquettishly with pagan heat. Imagine envying an innate thing, and losing my senses like a flaming wing of a meteor? Does a shirt have feelings or soul that I die to hold what it can hold? What does it care that a woman desires to wash it because it has felt the fires of your body and wants to inhale the warmth of the collar, even the stale earthly memory of wear and weave of a sleeve? What does it care that I envy the clasp of its pearly buttons that measure the time of our short lives with their upward climb,dressing and undressing you, unasked,leaning against your beating heart,while I who envied no other's lot stand silent, apart and jealous of cloth.

Envy (Yerance te)
Medakse (Translated by Diana Der-Hovanessian)