Evening
I'm breathing the smoke of fruit cigarettes,
One's already burnt; I am craving for more.
I'm lighting the last one with no regrets -
If you were beside me, it well could be four.
I'm slowly turning the key in my lock;
It usually takes me two minutes or three,
But I have been blind to the obstinate clock -
Alas, there is no one waiting for me.
My room has no present but treasures the past;
Its walls will recall every breath that we share...
I'm feeling so cold. I break down at last:
My papers will choke on the ink of despair.
My heart's like a violin's sound, unclear;
It's out of tune for a permanent matter.
I'll sign all these verses with only one tear
And seal with a sigh just to send with a letter.
|