every morning
i write
but not for you
today
every morning is
a sacrifice
an offering for
the goddess of
truth
every morning is
an exercise of honesty
the night may still
be on that stage of
denial
i may write for you
soon
i do not wish you
to read for now
it will be
incredible
nothing is
worth believing
for the meantime that
the words are
still constructed
what you see actually
is not what you get
there is a ripe fruit
for the season &
it will be for your personal
picking
tomorrow is the best
place for you
to fathom the depths of
my suffering
you lay in bed crying
and you wipe your tears
the thoughts will come
like sunshine on the window
then you will have a hint
of me
and you follow it
like a bird
flying away to a
faraway hill
towards a cave
where darkness is a little bit
mixed
with light and shadows and
creeping sounds of
bats
& glowing worms
then you shall understand
what everything in me is all about
you see
you can only understand the past
when you have arrived
at the room of the
future
when what you remember of me is only the wind
what what i am to you is no longer a star.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem