You forgot everything.
Buried your hands deep
in distant fossil dust and
tried to interpret my scribbling
in the quicksand
but ebb tide
washed parts away
Still
I lick fossil dust off your fingertips
that taste like melody
because Santayana perceives Music
Music
the most abstract of arts
as a servant to the dumbest emotions
while I respond to the silence of words
Words
that evoke mute portrayals
brimming with feigned sounds
in turn triggering
bona fide verbal passions
Save for I am deaf and dumb
to echoes of love
albeit our tongues interlock
as if they were wishbones
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem