Question Of A Poet To A Pair Of Eyes Reflecting His


Love, if I grow fat
For passing the afternoon
Diagnosing the faults of the heart,

Or if my cheeks bear the
Heaviest of dark circles
For burning the evening
Formulating verses,

Or if morning by morning
My spines curves
With sleeplessness
Writing verses of love

Trying to feel
What my predecessors
Have failed to write
Of their lovers,

And if in each hour, in every second,
In the littlest movement of time,
I add a pound for every verse that I write
For you, who’s the everything of me,

And if my whole life
Is spent like that,
in this, writing and rewriting,

Dying in the morning, in the
Afternoon, and in the evening—

By dying I meant having the smell
Of a jackfruit, an existence reduced
To layers of fats comparable to
The rice terraces
And a posture never deserving of
A national monument

Will you, and still, and always,
And only, love me?

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