I sit staring at a flower,
Embroidering a window-corner.
Like honey-color, it draws the eyes,
And by its strong scent, it dazzles the minds.
For hours, I’m wringing my hands, ready
To seize the day, the day
That still never be.
I curse the mason and his damn building,
For the window is so high like the sky
Still I can perceive its brightness, shining
Both the ground and the sky.
I wonder which saint its mother
Had visited before giving birth to such a luminous star.
True, the sky is star-studded, but
Only one is both a flower and a star.
And to it my heart never stops palpating with excitement
At each of its movements, expecting
Always a smile or a quick wave;
That still never be.
Yes, there will be time, there will be
Time to murder and create,
Or just time to wave and smile.
But NO! NO!
That will never be.
Overnight, like the previous ones,
It will be gone with a fucking fop,
And all desires and hours will be again in vain.
But NO! NO!
It will never be.
Viewing me, a worn-out old flower with a haik all around
Shuts the shutter for good.
Always being there , but the dawn never appears again.
For the like, it is silliness to live when
To live is torment; and then
Have a prescription to die when
Death is my only physician;
For this same flower that has never smiled
Tomorrow will be dying.
Then we set up a world, colorful and everlasting.
It will be! It will be!
But not now! No death now!
Like my dear Prufrock, I shall live, I shall live
With my fancy-flower in my heart,
Till the natural death makes our golden nest
Where our souls shall meet…
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