I would send flowers, every day to you.
But I would have sent a single Chrysanthemum.
Lonely, bereft, but a soul in search of sanctum sanctorum.
You would have kissed it.
Sheltered it in the soft bed of your warm nothingness.
Gone home, taken your robe off,
Squashed the pillow,
Made it wallow,
In the love of our divine lust,
Moan for a while,
Then turn, and sleep, my eternal strife.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem