Walking, with pearls on his fingers,
One for each ear
Your ears,
Curved like hills,
Plush like meadows
Buried in the sand, languid toes
Traversing the road,
Forked and ambivalent
In the storm’s hazy somnolence.
In anticipation,
You wait for him
With no traces of the Sun,
“Where is he? ” You asked,
“Is he not, the doctor’s son? ”
And you’re meeting him on a Sunday,
Where we used to meet,
In any cold weather,
That maims the car tires
Tainting the fender,
Shattering the bender
In such fashion where,
You splinter what soul I hold,
Here in the wintry bellowing air
I have not much to say,
For you have forgotten me,
With lips like a barrel of a gun,
Ready to fire for the Doctor’s Son.
I wonder what he sees in you,
Is it your eyes?
Do they know that tulips inspire you?
That you have 4 cartilages protruding
Whilst you beam your head high,
Far up, hoisted in the labyrinth of troubled times
He wouldn’t know,
Because in resignation
He dismisses you as a lovely face,
Just like any other man,
Fancying beautiful women,
And not handsome souls
Where have you gone, reason?
You seem to fumble toward frivolousness,
Languor in the tips of a dullard with benumbed senses.
One day, you will remember me
In twenty fathoms across planes,
Onto the rooftops atop my bed
On a hill side and a stream,
And I would taste the champagne
Exposed to a facile, dead, surreptitious beam
Of moonlight waxing across
Pores, and downy hair
Where I feel my death,
Knocking at my door,
And I hear your vows,
Resonating across the church doors
With the hands of the doctor’s son
Anybody’s son,
Who wanted, and triumphed
In winning a heart,
That I have won, long enough
That I had lost in the drought of my veins.
The pain is beyond virile, as it stalls
Inside my physiologies, like bells
For whom shall it toll?
Do you know?
Do I know?
I know nothing,
But as I pierce the veil,
Yet only in my mind,
I had come to this conclusion
That to have wanted you, is a futile intrusion
Where my mind, spoke faster
Than any other mouth,
My actions proved better,
Than any other hand,
And my heart,
Enamored far more too real,
Than the doctor’s son,
Any other’s son.
I am on my way to believing,
That above everyone else,
I am the auspicious one.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem