I clicked your page again today, and found,
between the stony beach and your fair meadow,
a list of broken hearts you’d written for
(we bowed together before your humour
before the sorrows that left no shadow) .
You called in Interpol when I was bound
for barren rocks beyond the Kuiper belt
and had me summoned home in fits at the
pistol point of your wit. I couldn’t say
I knew you well. I never saw your face,
nor heard you tell of your long agonies;
but yours were the words that told us how we felt:
whether alone by the black river’s falls
or, laughing together in these empty halls.
For will barber - RIP
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem