it's been long,
actually, i have forgotten, that place where we used to be,
i changed, i have told you i know myself,
i changed, i will not tell you that i have changed,
it will be as bitter as a detachment,
of a clover foot, divided into two pieces,
it will be still soft, but it will be more of slipping white sands
between my fingers,
i do not understand myself, so how can i ever understand you.
you sit on a table fronting me, yet, i do not see you completely
in the same manner, that i put my body here, but my mind is flying
like a kite somewhere, while my fingers pretend that i still have
a grasp about flying strings and wings and thoughts,
it's been long, and i talk to you, but i never mean each word,
actually, i do not like the color of that plate, the way the spoon and
fork are put parallel to each other,
the tea tastes like hell.
i could have told you, the tea really tastes like hell,
i have changed,
now i am dishonest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem