The world starts every day in sadness.
The taste of love is seldom in my mouth.
I dare not touch my finger to my lips:
the memories of poison and kisses
I cannot reach the chair,
so I sit on the floor.
The sun moves like the lifetime of an emotion
that I cannot touch.
In the evening, I remember to give voice
to the desire locked in my soul,
but it is silent.
I have to strip everything off,
let winter ravage and tear,
to find that day’s spring,
an imaginary sunshine in the dark hues of evening
The funny taste on my lips,
poison and medicine,
kisses and ice,
if I don’t touch my own lips right now,
that’s what would be madness.
My finger doesn’t feel like a lover,
but it wakes me up,
it makes me believe in the dreams,
I want those dreams on my tongue,
I want a lover’s lips to make a place large enough
to hold all the fears, all the mistakes
all the hope
I have today.