An Unwritten Poem

/, Blesok no. 77-79/An Unwritten Poem

An Unwritten Poem

There Are Some Ordinary Lives, but All Loves Are Extraordinary
Some Poets Write As They Live
Tonight, My Love, Fire Walks Through the City
An Unwritten Poem
Question Mark
The Invisible, My Love, Overflows with Meaning
We Have Nothing Left, My Love, Except Love
When You Are Not With Me in Tomai
The Window Was Blind
It Happened In Broad Daylight

We have nothing left, my love,
except love. Nothing, in our old age,
but to lick each other’s unhealed wounds.
Protect one another from the cold
with the warmth of our bodies
and the alternation of hot breaths on each other’s neck.
By laying hands on all, even the shameful places.
Shamelessly measuring our courage and freedom.
Seeing in our once beautiful bodies, now disfigured,
the balance of experience and ripening.
Adding our own trembling script to the palimpsest
of skin tanned by so many caresses. We are becoming all
of this, as much as we are different from who we were,
clay that wants kneading to be shaped into a new pitcher.
One that will be, when we have drunk all of its wine,
filled to the brim by death.

Translated by Mia Dintinjana

2018-08-21T17:22:51+00:00 August 1st, 2011|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 77-79|0 Comments