The moon
a bauble...a bubble
on your open palm
that you pretend to
blow away.
The photograph smiles
(captures you)
& here too
the moon a halo
surrounds
your golden hair
as if you were a Christian saint
which you...ain’t.
I consigned them
to the flames
watch
your image burn
flames licking at
this photographed happiness
your love
nothing now but
ash
a s h
a s h.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem