Question of a Poet


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 in every morning my spines curves
With sleeplessness writing letters of love

Trying to write what my predecessors
Have failed to write of their lovers,

And if in each hour, in every second,
In the little 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 lamenting

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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