Soon I shall write a poem about us
telling how we stuck out our legs to trip up time
speeding by with our beautiful moments together as lovers.
We should have done that to spare our future
from a different moment.

I shall write about happiness
knocking at our door terrified by sadness chasing it.
How we opened to protect it
but sadness was faster
and happiness fled.

Quickly we went seeking it
shaking off bad thoughts that might scare it.
Between onwards and onwards came anxiety, and we missed
our chance to love.

I shall write about love’s flight
even if every poet before me has made it a cliché.
I shall write because I know we had a fragrance
wafting above words, and poets
like readers are the least of my concerns.

With minimum artistry, I shall write a poem
expressive as possible, but natural.
I couldn’t bear it to be beautiful
something sharing my delight in you
even if the description did you justice.

In the face of my delight I can’t write anything.
I will rhapsodize in honour of the experience
while you, impossible one,
can dance to the rhythm of my rhythm
helpless in the snares of silence.