The letters I gave you
have smudged their ink,
and those you
gave me are soiled
by wormwood.
I am looking
for the closet
where I stored
all relics of love;
but you lost the key
to open it, and I own
no duplicate.
A fossilized heart
has no substitute.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem