I bought her flowers.
Not the bright, multi-coloured kind,
like the colour of my love for her,
but the subtler shades of cream and white,
reflections of my watching hours.
I bought her flowers.
They speak of thoughts that pass the day,
all those loving moments shared,
of ballerina grace, in lingerie lace,
of love that disempowers.
I bought her flowers.
Their reflected light lit her face
even long after she left me here,
and ghosts took her place,
to while away my lonely hours.
I bought her flowers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem