On the dirty window of a pastry shop
i corrode with my now-black nails, “stay”
in a few days,
things will fall apart
we will fall apart…
… in a few days,
the flower shop will close down forever
whose exotic name continues to skip my mind
will start to get ruined without me around
here’s the full note:
“while you can, and then leave,
if the desire of flight satisfies your condition
of migrancy, of which i know so little,
a pathological, germinating disease that worked
a tumor in your chest,
you coughed it at night and cried in sleep,
while i stared on…
i haven’t slept for the past 8760 days, my love!
of you i knew so less,
our bodies flat like two pleated shades.
Outside, it always rained, while we failed
to hear the changing weathers,
and the rain worked up a storm,
you screamed one night.
You had to leave. The General woke you up.
The army was in the room. Your vision, held true,
elapsed a horror, as they marched in.
Your dream spread water in our room,
and we started to drown. I screamed back,
“Free me from your Country.””
twenty-four years gone away like an unfulfilled wish,
“Happy Birthday, my beautiful!”
the routine of running from the flower shop
to the pastry shop is coming to an end
hungry footsteps that prey little happiness:
like the one caged in reciting a foreign pastry’s name
-those hungry footsteps are fading…
because you are leaving soon.
— 1:28 AM, 15/02/2012