I have yet to come out of my cave:
to feel fresh air ruffling hair;
screwing my eyes against light.
Thoughts are no more than a metre
or two beneath the ground yet truth
must stay hidden and out of sight.
And while my skin is bleached
for lack of sun a dark-age of time
stains me with what I've missed.
This solitude, this withoutness,
is not what I'd intended when
I answered your call to make a wish.
I wished you were here by my side
or at least not where you now sleep
so I could love until my final breath.
What years of happiness have we
lost when you squandered your heart,
seduced by the beckoning angel of death?
So I endure in this semblance of night
to live what's left as a solitary troglodyte.
April 2023
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem