He always coughed before he ran.
She often thought of the sound a car makes
just before ignition, which also
coughs before it runs.
There seemed something purgative
about his early morning jog,
more than just a constitutional,
beyond mere aerobic kinetics,
something like an auto da fe
or walking fast through fire.
Something there about flight
or possibly pursuit.
Was he running from
or running to, and to what?
From what? From her?
From his life?
Here, take this amulet,
my kiss, she says as he opens the door.
You must know always
that my deepest affection
runs right beside you
and over you like a cool wind.
Tell me what you tell
the wind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem