Your words tintinabulate across me
like the tinkling of piano keys on my skin.
Your voice is so pretty, ringing and striking
like it always does.
I know there is something wrong here though,
the light from your face completely gone.
Your piano bars are slightly off key.
There is something broken in your strings,
and you do not want to be pretty right now.
That is the last thing you want
as you belt out your anger to me.
You don't want to be pretty.
You don't want to be a song,
but you are. You are a song
so loud and beautiful and overwhelming.
You are a song that neither you nor I
can bear to escape.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem