I do not know the feel of a lover's caress-
But I have been told it is like being touched
By the barest whisper of the softest petal-
A tickle, a laugh, a short moment of ease
And then once again the world begins to settle.
I do not know of the sweet exchanges between lovers
When the shadows grow long and the world stops short-
I have not felt the tickle of words that (like a light shower)
Trickle past the ears and into the heart-
Opening up closed doors of a late blooming flower.
I do not know love, yet I speak of it-
I do not know pleasure, yet it is what I crave.
I value honour and valour and above all, faith
And the comfort of no bed beckons me more than my grave.
I know pain. Yea-I know it well,
It is constant-like a shard of glass driven through my veins.
And you amplify it tenfold, yet you know not
I know the root of my insanity, yet, I am not insane.
You do not know me
Rather, you do not wish to know-
What is there to say that hasn't been said before?
You do not love me
I do not wish to know-
All I seek is a coward's end so I can feel no more.
Late at night, I can sometimes hear your breath
Brush past the deep recesses of my soul-
When the feeble light of the moon shadows my modesty,
The darkness of you swallows me whole.
I sometimes think I see you in my reflection-
Or in the beams that creep through my diaphanous shades
And in a secret chamber deep inside my mind
You are a constant image that never fades.
Late at night, I clutch the blankets between my cold clammy hands
And my cold nose turns red while a still colder heart turns blue-
I sleep fitfully, discontented-
Each fibre of my being searching for you-
And sometimes I leave the windows open in the peak of winter,
The cold oddly warming my broken limbs
And sometimes I wake up to the softest caress
And find a secret lover in the fleeting winds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.