Flower in the Dark

My life so easily fogs, Godot,

When winter descends, our leaves

Become so very much clear; our wooden fingerprints

Are transporting the extract of our lives. In those clips

Our speech made of young seasons

Still cannot persuade any of the flowers.

All those who wither are spelling out a crimson winter.

Red: reminds me of snow;

Of those bloods which are similar yet opposite.

(– Desiderium, temporarily we call it)

Every snowflake that falls onto a heart

Becomes a birthmark. Beside the fireplace, I stand

& write, like a heart falling vertically on a winter night.

(Feelings as secure as a rock.)

On snowfield we applaud, sketching the melting

Of footprints. The road, Godot, is in here where

Our souls tremble.

Then it snows with a greater tempo, snowstorm

Is the syntax that I like more. In Coldness

There is the birth of my name; repeatedly

I ponder how to translate Love.

– – Until language-less I become;

       Until the snow-ish ring grows into my

       Finger joint. (As white as a touch: whitens

       Into a bunch of names so-much-alike-flowers.)

These vessels rooted in Winter,

Are annotating the extension of my veins.

Wherever the road bifurcates,

There lays the Sleep of a village.

Tremblingly, I write them poems;

I repeat: those words awakened by the chill of my soul.

Godot, this white snow

Encloses my eyes:

(Caves that take in the world.)

I see blood streaks like leaf veins.

And in the absence of the sun,

This internal darkness

Is so much like a sky closest to clearness.

2021.11.27