Could he have known
that the frothy intoxication
bubbling forth behind the blanket of darkness...
was the juice of her life!
Could he have known
that the rush of sensations of needles
injected into his vein
Slurring his words with sedative euphoria...
Was the blood of her life!
Could he have known
That the stakes he eagerly wagered
unmindful of the rational warnings
Were the dreams of her life!
Now her losses
like sharp claws digging into her soul
Freezing her in the coffin of her life
Wishing to drape the white shroud of eternal peace!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This has the eerie feel of a gothic novel. I am afraid to read more in this vein, yet there is a tempting frisson and I probably will read more. I will turn out all the lights late one night, except for a small lamp near my desk, and surrender to the shudder. (Actually, I hope this is not representative of the poet's oeuvre, because that would be too sad.) The meaning of /shroud of peace/ is reversed, is a Poe-like way, so that the narrator's interment drags on with no relief from eternal pangs of regret. The serious issue confronted here is a gray area that is close to rape but perhaps not legally provable as rape. This is manipulation of someone's tender feelings.