My poems that I am trying to scatter to you, standing on one foot, lame in their gait - or so they seem - sometimes endure their bleeding wounds, and sometimes pretending the pain that comes from them doesn't exist and continue their course as if a catastrophe did not even happen.
I confess my helplessness lest I swallow my disappointment in you, despite my maturity and the naivety of your plot, even though you were not my first bereavement nor my heavy losses; However, I find it difficult, perhaps because I tried to get over you completely as if you never existed.
I will stop justifying and analyzing it, I no longer have enough sadness to give to your stupid novel...
I hardly escape from you every day, and then lose at nine in the evening, cursing the time, and your dancing voice in my mind like a last lifeline, “I don’t want to escape at your melting ropes,” I don’t have more life to waste at your locked door...
In my last poems... I used to drive your words, your melodies, and all your withered roses out of my room. Rather, I would shake off the smell of your cheap tobacco, and that scar you left around my chin, which I dye every night the color of my skin so that it becomes a part of me, and your trace is completely gone, and then I look at myself in the mirror after I have completely disavowed your darkness, and whisper "My light is still bright enough to save me from hugging you again".
I continue my ritual by spraying white lute whose atoms were created to write a poem to appease you, and at the end of it I kill you in cold blood, and I recite my rainy prayers and curse you three thousand times, then look at the sky, close my eyes, and mutter: Amen!
My tears will cleanse me from you, battalions of unforgivable guilt, which I might give up with great remorse.
I know that the bleeding will not stop and that the pain remains - perhaps forever - to remind me of the drama of my greatest regret for every time I gave you a bit of life and pleasure, a bit of hope, and its taste!
You, like other cowards, rejoice in your suffering, your groans, and practice reciting your poems in hell without paying any attention to salvation, as if you were a demon created from fire, pain, and suffering.
You're dead in rotting robes, and I'm living in all its glamorous outfits.
So - my dear - this must have been a vain hug, from the very first moment!