Dear Juliet, beware the snore,
the farts staining the underwear thrown on the sideboard,
the flowers not given, the 7th child, the daily bread...
surely they can kill more surely than the knife, the feudal hatred.
Dear Juliet you must be glad you died, when you did.
Before you realised that Romeo's waistline
has a way of going slack
and that he has this habit of repeating himself...
And likes to sit at home on Saturday nights.
Or did you miss it really?
The salad turning into a banquet for a king,
the sitting on the staircase and watching a Sun die
the finding of an antique chain in a lost part of a lost city.
The little betrayals & the big affirmations.
The game of 28 at 2.00 in the morning.
The lazy Sunday morning.
The this, the that,
the ordinary wearing into a ballet of understanding.
And passion stretching past awkward furtive kisses,
past ecstasy into the stars.
Dear Juliet, it's good to die and be remembered.
It's also good to be alive.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
a very original and unusual composition. But does not read like a poem.
Something is either original or not, no adverb like 'very' is needed. Poems do not have to rhyme; there are many different styles of poems.