What of bluebells and cherry trees
or letters sewn across the sky,
the stars may fall, stricken on their knees
yet I have no tear for them to supply.
I do not care either for honeysuckle,
butterflies slaughtered and slain.
The wind, enraged, a hymn cannot quell
will have to blow its fury in vain.
Alas, you may praise Neruda's pen
but to me his hands are stiff and foreign.
I read your poem and in a sudden
a flood rushes across my vein -
(Like) rain at the peak of monsoon,
the gutters fill and the rivers swell.
Water, ink, feelings trampling on,
the paper drowns, I drown (in you) as well.