I watch you rise from the place you rest,
Your eyes the whitest shade of pale-
Your pasty skin and stale coffin breath,
Your movements reluctant, your limbs so frail.
Yet I love you, ask me not why,
After years of yenning have gone by-
My eyes are still glued to the path I wept,
When I chased you right after you left.
I remember running throw the falling snow,
Hail and storm could not stop me;
I remember tracing the outline of your absconding back,
My eyes followed you to as far as they could see.
I called your name, you did not look back,
You walked your way to the top of the hill-
And right when I thought you'd turn back around,
You waved and then the world stood still.
I watch you as you rise from your summer bed,
Long months after I watched you take your life;
Yet, my love for you has neither dwindled nor shrunk,
If anything, it has made me love the sharp edge of my knife.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem