There will be no name of the sea,
no fragrance for the flower,
no light in the sun,
nothing.
There will be no scent of old books,
no music to hear,
that world, once full
now gnaws in silence.
If by some mallice of fate--
we meet again,
I might ask you --
Do you still fancy those Persian rugs like you used to?
Do you still sketch those blind owls that you never named?
Nothing helps, my dear.
Not sleep,
Not breath.
I ask the absence If I ever cross your mind,
but the absence has no mouth--
only a throat full of dusts
If only you could feel
how my heart wrenches
when your name appears.
How my ribs tremble
when I remember your laugh--
too alive,
too cruel.
I walk with your ghost
not behind me,
but inside.
It chews from the ribs outward.
I die in moments--
quietly,
slowly.