I have come here to lay my head at your feet,
to ask forgiveness,
to sit in the rose chair and burn my thorns.
Whatever I thought to do,
when I am her with you, is nothing.
I came to weep.
There is no escape from grief.
Outwardly, I am silent.
Inwardly, you know how I am screaming.
Make my face yours.
I will shorten this poem.
Read the rest inside me.
Poor silent lover,
you have no one to talk to?
But your thoughts keep surging through
like an army of firebrands.
Alone, every person stays quiet.
No one talks to a closed door.
But you are convinced
that you have lost your best companion.
Maybe you are already in the pure world,
beyond this scroungy wanting
and the metabolizing on nature. No doubt.
From The Big Red Book