Again I move, a little pen in a poet’s hand
inking love poems for a woman he does not know.
I do not dance for a woman’s sake.
Nor even for a poet’s frail ego,
(Threadbare and worn is that mask!)
neatly severed by an invisible blade
he cannot name.
No, I sing for unknown fantasy
and catalogue names of unnamed goddesses
as I ink love poems for a woman he does not know.
And paper, my accomplice, will bare colours
(Who’s, what's, when's and where's.)
and vibrant hues of idyllic passion
memory deems forgotten through the years.
I move for generations that may never understand.
I ink love poems for a woman he does not know.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.