At the punch of a clock,
the birds make their unwelcome
noise because they just do.
They're crows.
I get up.
It's a cold morning.
My breath tracks up a smoke,
a signal that the petty, old
house hasn't snugged itself in warmth,
which means I forgot to turn on the heater.
But the house was always warm before.
It had a crisp sense of assurance.
That was before she was gone.
She left me so close but so far.
But the house was always warm before.
I become redundant now.
There is still some broken glass
to pick up on the wooden floor.
The room was a mess of opened, but empty,
furniture. Her clothes, her things,
my money....my money. She took it all.
She took every belonging.
I hear the noise. The punch of voices
in my head. Can't I see you?
Scarlet, aren't you there?
I'm alone and afraid. Oh, please,
come back...
Nothing spoke to me. It was a weak attempt
of life to move from the room to the kitchen.
The refrigerator was open.
There was still food inside. At least she left some.
She knows I love food.
I grab a scattered chair and, I sit on it,
arching my back. I feel like the Paranoid Android.
There is still some broken glass
to pick up on the wooden floor.
Is this my doing? Do I have to suffer this?
If I pleaded would it be enough, or more?
She was there for me, wasn't she?
Scarlet, are you not there in my heart?
I hear the noise. The punch of voices
in my head. Can't I see you?
Scarlet, aren't you there?
I'm alone and afraid. Oh, please
come back, Scarlet!
Please, come back.
Is this enough or more?
I can't suffer any longer!
When it comes to my decisions,
I make every wrong deduction.
I ponder in my head and how.
I have my head down
and my eyes circulate water.
On the floor is a mess of glass.
My tears trickle down on it.
I see the horrible monster who did this.
He's crying like me.
He's on a chair, in the most pitiful state.
He screams the Scarlet I love,
the one I can never have back.
He's shedding a waterfall like me.
He's sitting on a stool.
He breathes the Scarlet I love,
the one I can never have back.
He's tired like me.
He's afraid of getting off the chair.
He wants to die for the Scarlet I love,
the one I can never see again.
Knocks. Knocks.
The door is wide open.
Outside is the every day of my life:
a well kept lawn, a lazy, orange sun
and some smell of wet dog.
It's the afternoon already.
I should do something.
So what am I waiting for?
I pick up the mess and sweep
back to my room. I put a change
of clothes and pick up my shoes
and go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem