Green I wish were the color
Of my lover's eyes,
But instead she gives me a rush
Of hazel, floating upon itself,
Unmoved by the glint of the searing sun.
Thrice were the teardrops of agony
When we split:
There was lost fluorescence,
Damnable fallen bloom,
Nothing but a loss of a loss.
When I met her again
Lore had been tendered upon a spit,
Lost and broiled away,
Just like her verdant eyes
That, alas, had never been hers
In truth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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