He is the lucidity,
That I cannot attain.
The dreams I can’t remember,
But haunt me all the same.
My immortal lacuna,
I’m already dead.
He’s not my resurrection,
But my birth from silhouette.
My cracked lachrymal,
Within it; a suffering sea.
My unaware martyr,
That'll never quite save me.
My morose optimism,
The hope that time will numb.
Though as each second intensifies,
My love, let each second come.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem