• Question of a Poet

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    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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