Fragments of an Ending

PSALM 23:4 OF THE FLOWER

Not an Adonis Particularly,

In the first glance for me

Still my euphorbia wilted,

and it smelled like thee.

Not a warmth in body

In the first touch- more of an antipathy

Still right side of the bed awfully tidy

Sense of a teazel, tedious and prickly

Not a bouquet of mannish red rose

In the first gesture, bur rebellious mum

Still, I received a call from mom

Favouring humble begonia as reminded to me.

Not a story of devotion to a scent

Not in the whole sowing, but to the stem

Still flamboyant need pruning from them

Now learned to stand as morning-glory bent

EARTHLY EVE

My divine love sings a song

It starts with birth, ends in a few years

Not for mine, nor yours- nor his to hear

to hold the hand of the angels in heaven

Eyes are not big and bright like that woman

Her words: strings of harps-not like this woman

Waltzes to you, never stumbling feet

You call it Houri, I call it homewrecker.

Your calloused hand reaches for the ethereal

“ …there wont be any sorrow, only joy and more

Then my song will be that of the stronger.”

Can it be fair when for us only I labor?

“YOU temptress! Set me free!

Take your blemished body too…”

I will harvest, high sky is watch you see

As earthly Eve- I- I will do.

        ──── 

   A baritone voice— 

   mine quivers, doubt itself. 

   A flute tries to catch, 

   a Steinway in debate. 

   Grey beard, 

   tobacco-scented, 

   caressed—HmHm! 

     Then that framed mouth 

          turned to me, 

        a smirk buried 

    within the bristles—Hm? 

    Tuneless now, 

      and almost silent— 

         my subtle te 

    O      O 

  Surrounded by a concerto... 

IT WAS NEVER ANYTHING…

It was not rebirth, for I stayed still,

And all of the bundles cried out loud

It was not care or love, for I was alone

The night when my burning body at cold floor

It was not fluttering wings, for my stomach that’s

Empty, only the echo of my cold womb sang

Nor was it waves of anxiety, since for the first time

My dejected eyes were dry as fire.

It was not stab to the heart, nor it was

Constant existence; for me the warmth of

The embrace has been a trueness

As much as this night’s solicitude of us

Nevertheless, it was the mixture of all these

smells. Rose, shivering rain, fever, delirium

Scent of it all was a faint perfume

As if the volatile love of someone

And the hive of my suspicions.

I was your despair, for the reflection of scare

Lurked then surrounded its subject as well

You were my fantom, for the mind of the weak

Stood in front then crushed its master to kneel.