You described reality and it smelled like chloroform.
Orphan of an answer,
you tried once, and another time,
in desperate attempt,
To avoid - but unable - revealing
the image of pain,
adjacent between your words.
Are these words only things and no more than messages?
Like poetry and lies,
they are no more than objects
made of words
carriers of the messages of your lonely season?
You believed I could be seen through,
remote, predictable, sentimental, vulnerable.
Remote and unattainable,
and too far to fill
that void.
In the silence of the dawn,
I burn an incense,
For poetry can be made of no words,
It happens with the heart only.
Remotely, only the heart can save us.
Remotely only the heart can save us.
Sometimes, the wind favors the clouds,
Yet I stand still,
"Away you go!" I said to the wind
"Give me back my clear sky"
But Karma stood by its side.
Us, remotely unattainable once again.
Back to the lonely season, the one you built, now also mine
with its clouds, and its undecipherable messages made of chloroform smelling words.
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