Lost in Translation
You cease to exist in the well-interpreted sorrow between us,
Perhaps, I as always give too much weight to the uncertainty
of the sun, in a Winter when all languages become foreign to me,
drink from my own loneliness, wait for the un-graspable to relocate.
Withering leaves hung on the threshold of our lost sensation,
mimicking still the sound of Autumn (its impulses are eternal),
and then found a way to fall. We listen to the signs of their beaming
speed for some millions of years, till they reach the marble floor.
What then? The un-decorative nature of truth, accurate and
hurtful, makes us rather will to sink in our own steps. Do not
make me to choose. With infinity and originality weave me to this
hustle, into the lightening on the wall, instead of a skyline forged.
2004-10-6
