we've been writing and writing
and writing
not for once have we seen each other
yet
i do not wish too somehow
perhaps we are meant to be just like this
near and yet so far
real and surreal at the same time
perhaps we are better as souls
better as air rather than rocks or islands or bones
i cannot say i love you for that would be
too shallow a conclusion based on the emptiness of sands
we are into this anonymity and i will tell you
how i feel
i feel like a white fragile tiny butterfly
fluttering from one flower to another and still undecided
whether to hover finally to a red petal of that
rose
there is simply no flower for me
the air claims me as its property, and my nectar
is emptiness, my proboscis is guile
my feet nowhere to land.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem