I pick up myself,
Away from the two warring seas,
Straight to the prolix world
Of tongues.
I plucked you out of my memory.
Your scent,
Your hair,
your french-tipped lacquer,
Your parting words,
And I coalesced them
With the soft drizzle upon my
Lithe skin.
I contacted a friend,
To purchase fresh cuts
Of flowers.
I do not know where you are,
But I know where you should be.
But I never told you,
Because the semantics are tired,
And the crowds confessed
Their peccadilloes.
Here, your fresh cuts
Of tulips.
My friend ran out of
Mauve tulips
So I had to give you
Tangerine ones,
And I rode the bus,
And the people said to themselves,
“This man is a fool.”
What good does it make?
I will brave their lewd eyes,
Straight to your doorstep
Into your windowpanes,
And dropp your fresh cuts.
But you weren’t home.
You were never home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem