i did not really know
exactly if you love me.
those years we just talk
about silly matters, just
like what all young lovers
do, and i did not bother
to ask you about how you
feel, about love, as
we just keep on enjoying
us, at the boulevard, in the
beach house, on those piers
where boats are anchored,
where passengers disembark
and embark again to
new destinations,
was it five years? yes, five
years with red roses even
if it is not valentines, and
it was you who keep on writing
me letters, and i have to
write you too, and i heard that
you read it with your friend,
giggling,
ah,20 years already,
from there, when we parted,
we did not bother if love faded,
we just tread different paths,
and we stopped writing letters
and we stopped calling,
and we stopped loving, and then
now i wonder, if there was really
love, or it was just another
kind of adventure, and i heard,
from a friend of a friend,
that you suffered a lot but i
did not bother,
for what is really the essence
of this affair?
i had mine and you had yours,
and the years filled us both,
with both emptiness and anxieties,
and then we will meet, and perhaps
for now, i must ask: was there love?
was it love?
is this love? or we may just talk
and talk,
without still saying anything.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem