In most nights of treachery,
I look at the moon and remember you.
Your face.
Days lost in intoxication,
And I hope
As my arms fold in lieu of the moon’s
Dead luster,
That the tables would turn,
And the tides would cascade upon dead bodies
And you end up:
Abandoned
Wandering in a different plane
Losing track of time, precious time that you spent away,
In leisure, in a lavish fatale
Freezing in a public vehicle
Spinning in vertigo as people scrutinize you,
Feigning a smile, a dying chortle
I hope you find nobody
But yourself
So you’d understand.
Your time would come,
Of this I am inevitably sure
In the blackest pits and whitest hopes
I know your time will come.
The anger,
Anguished, scrawny to the bone
Lonely in a park bench, in the university bleachers
Gasping for air, with the stench of grief
Your time will come
I hope you find no one.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem