We talked; indeed, we did
And it spelled a kind of doom.
For intimate conversation is the voice of love
And our sort of love is not meant to exist
Apparently.
Quietly, I tried hard to tune out the quantitative noise
Of my contemptuous life;
But, impossible it was.
There are lips drinking from both sides of the purple cup.
I choked to death on mine...
We cannot drink from the same cup any longer,
Except via words-
Words, words, words-
We are in luck because words,
Like their predecessor, touch,
Come in bundles of joy, if we choose.
And we do.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
So much barriers in life Poet! And we have to fight against all of them. If not has not prize!