You've been peeking into my soul
and said nothing.
I'm not mad, it was my gift
to you, these pages.
They hold the time I lost
sprinting after you
the pens I blunted, the ink that dripped
the stories of you
siren that sleeps on the tip
of my pens.
I've blunted you, your lips.
I'm mediocre.
I've made ashes of you.
I said stories
not for the strangers that
didn't know you
I said them for my own stupid ego,
for myself.
I wanted you to breathe, to move
to tell me jokes again.
'When I was a child, my speech was that of a child.
My feelings and thoughts too were those of a child.
Now that I have become a man, I part with the child-like ways.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem