nobody has ever told me I am beautiful really truly
mindfully disquietly endlessly whispering not even
when the moirae were hastily stirring in the pots by my
cradle among the cherry-trees not even when I was
leaving the ocean with a train of singing seaweeds
dreaming hand in hand with allan light as a salty flow
not even when alone I got on the coach full of
commuters and the engine broke down and got off in
the cold night they had no phones in that valley like a
hidden chalice of bronze where foresters used to fall
asleep in their summer horse-carts what a snow
over them not even when I was bathing in copper
waters in the sun waiting for you that the bed sheets
were growing mad in the two-sepia-windowed house
not even when we forgot about us wrapped up in deer
skin in the snow melting the paths’ hearts of the
meadows not even when retorts were swerved away
from their lying lane over fields of flowers in happy
ends pour une bourgeoisie their pulsing silence in this
heart converted into a hospital of dreams with tissues
of destroyed pokemons not even when you reproved
me my lower lip trembling like a chicory margin of a
promontory where you never let me jump but weave
my arms in knot-shape bread and not even when I
was dying for good inviting nobody to my funeral near
a fire quenched at one time with my soul laying down
as long as he is with traces of kiss on your frozen
shadow not even when I returned into the slits of
waves like a boat for an immortal fisher