Lover, my love, my heart is but a punctured boat,
a boat I have managed to oar
and anchor almost single-handedly towards a distant shore.
It has rested in the moonlight, dreaming these many nights
Asking, when will it sinks further into this eternal darkness
when will it vanish unheard of and unknown, completely
It has rested in the moonlight dreaming of-fatalistic-pleasures.
In reflection, it remembers an angelic face
when the sun shone sweetly and burned like Spanish gold
it was not just grief in the shadows turned joyous
it was a resurrection of sorts even for me
it was a lulling incense spiralling burning heavenly
but even now, my heart keeps on slipping-back-restless
to the pull of that black sucking mud and the reeds,
the reeds that sang of death, mud that smelt of tar and blood
this love of mine was as wan as a pale moon,
she freed my anchor and pushed me far offshore.
I'd venture to say she scuttled my boat long before she boarded
I'd venture to say she broke my heart, punctured my boat,
long before I-or-she were even born.
And when I die, it's to her suffused smiling face,
not in the moonlight, but in
sunlight, I'll sail and sinks, apace
and burn like an evening star.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem