I try my best at memorizing you:
The little moments when you
look somewhere else, and I
at you, and your skin covers
just enough of your soul;
and your lips are drawn
in the color of a blushing muse
By famous painters who (in their addiction/affection)
Paint only cherry trees and you;
and your eyes explode into
Dark green galaxies
on which my heart sails, surendered,
away from this world;
And in my mind I see,
whispers gathering like snow
on the steep slopes of your neck
so closely related to my poems.
A lot of you is here
In this stubborn form,
Growing (up) on this page
Following my veins
To the place they end
Spilling into my heart
A river of you.
And when I'm not sailing
I too stay here, waiting
for the avalanche, as someone
who knows you from the past
Onto the shore you were a siren
With calm waves between your fingers,
Because you still are endless
as I write you
(with) your back against my heart
attaching strings to my skinny arms
and skinny legs, to my heart
And to my lips, pulling them,
making me naive
like a kite that wiggles its tail.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem