by Bert Alweiss

Created on: April 10, 2009

Now I choose lunacy

As another urgency in my blood.

Don't pity me.

This rose, for instance, that I pluck

Shall bleed

And suffer the censorship of God.

How shall I see the sun?

Once cold upon that solitary day

Leave behind the poetry of my conscience?

By images: the glitter on stones?

By movements: the upturned tide ashore?

Don't pity me.

There is always a preference

For everything that feels

By anyone who cannot stop loving.

If by chance the rose shall wilt

After you left the imprints of our trysts

In places where vines have arms

And dry leaves that see us holding

But hiding our laughter not even rain

Can contain all through the night,

Then, beloved, don't pity me.

There is always a preference

For memories that I hold dearly in my heart,

For dreams under wings of sleepless nights

Waiting to unfold, like unstained linens

At your early rising from bed.

If by choice the wine shall lose its fervency

And time shall be at its silent standstill

Then I shall stop loving you

And cease bridging the unspeakable distance

That stretched between us.

Don't pity me. Not even once.

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