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| Marco Yan |
Remembrance
They may have permeated into branching veins.
They may have permeated into branching veins.
They may have left, passing the laundry
hung by a half-open window.
They may have stayed, trapped in the narrow space
between the hands of the family clock.
They may have risen from the flame
of an incense candle, burnt
and become a billow of white smoke.
They may have fused with spirits,
dancing away from your body.
Maybe they are just tired of respiration.
hung by a half-open window.
They may have stayed, trapped in the narrow space
between the hands of the family clock.
They may have risen from the flame
of an incense candle, burnt
and become a billow of white smoke.
They may have fused with spirits,
dancing away from your body.
Maybe they are just tired of respiration.
It seems futile, silly even, to sit breathing.
Still, tracing the scent of your presence, I recall
the unwanted puffs, once in your lungs,
then involuntarily let flow to night hours.
Now the swaying hangers, the air-dried sleeves,
the congealed wax, the potted violetta,
ghosts of your exiled breaths,
all swirl around in the living room.
Still, tracing the scent of your presence, I recall
the unwanted puffs, once in your lungs,
then involuntarily let flow to night hours.
Now the swaying hangers, the air-dried sleeves,
the congealed wax, the potted violetta,
ghosts of your exiled breaths,
all swirl around in the living room.
© by Marco Yan
:))
ОдговориИзбришиUn poema muy bello.
ОдговориИзбришиUn abrazo,
La belleza de la soledad, esa paradoja que nos persigue, es inspiración en cualquier idioma. Gracias por traer este poeta. Saludos.
ОдговориИзбриши