We wondered life over a wart that summer night, soon talking of forever and how the bugs reemerge. I had perplexed if maybe the kiss was reason for the wart, as if you were the frog and I the prince. All soon flew away as time is wont to drift. But maybe all lives come down to this.
We live most of our time far underground. That summer night in the forest, our large eyes were wide and our well veined wings went transparent. So goes the skin of a heart when all is clicking, when emotions forget to be afraid. If only that rare time in life had stayed.
But my being temporarily goes tymbal by tymbal, clapping my cymbal, airing a symbol.
I wonder for you if it's not hard to hear and see. Maybe all I am is nature's example, like fiery magic on a hot night, like an epiphany, only destined to soon ice over.
Know this, my love, if I may dare call you this. My heart dreams to drift and to surface and to lift as if with a need, as if by nature to be. And when I arise, despite the danger of beasts, squirrels, bees, and birds, I shall look for you. And despite antiquity's labeled curse, me as one who will linger casually indifferent, while Aesop raves on instead about the hardworking ant, hear and see how I will labor to still fearlessly sing.
Long thought dead, I will materialize with you in mind, like a wart even to my own surprise, and chant.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem