The white bird has lost its red plume.
The seed in the clay jar has grown up.
The front door is soaked with rains and doesn't shut.
I am writing again, I don’t know to whom.
The moonlight is washing with its golden soap
my dishevelled garden and its decrepit gate.
There are many reasons for your not replying.
The ships sink in the sea, the doves are torn apart,
the messengers are shot by wasp-whizzing arrows.
Sometimes one can also stop remembering,
not for the indifference in one's heart,
but for one's own longing that has come too close.
In the crisp space of the persistent now,
you approach while the morning whispers
leaning over me from outside the garden,
the silver-grey magpies flit through her slow
fruity figure in the window, and the fuming tapers
of the cypresses cannot hold or harden
my fluid ache thrust out and away,
reaching far beyond the maddest of the stars.
Like the arrow of a careless archer, it hits
the one bird giving voice to the mastless bay,
where the worn out sail flies up and subsides
before the gaping clarity and its pregnant pits.
…If you did reply, it would ruin something
between us, a stubborn contentment with which
I expect what I know and ruminate
on stretching out and, with a tip of a wing,
touching your hair, which I will never reach,
shattering you like a diamond slate.