I dream my
favorite green tie
Is a
hangman’s noose, and
I wake up.
It’s
terribly sweet, this taste before death. . .
And it’s morning.
I don’t
have a tiepin to hand…
I live,
disjointed from the expectations of the world.
It is not
now forgotten,
this extraordinary taste of torment.
this taste
from that
yesterday I was licking my son’s
chocolaty fingers.
So
everything is clear.
My morning
sensitivity – your scent,
And this
scent became part of me.
Ten years following death of sorts
I’m waking up next to you.
***
weakened by
the wind
creaking moaning
this clapperboard fence. . .
drunk in
the wind
swaying staggering
such a roseate house. . .
striking
the mind
blowing at the heart
such a cold wind . . .
dissipate
from the nape of you
such a melancholy scent. . .
ragged moon
made drunk in the wind
such a fleeting glance. . .
**
Cold swallows warmth.
Clouds swallow brightness.
As much as glorious summer swells,
The season of melancholy draws ever nearer.
And just
like brittle, yellow leaves,
The hair on your temples turns silver.
— Ayurzana
(trans. by Simon Wickham-Smith)