You turn around and wave to me.

The doors close like a camera shutter,

The tram moves on.

 

Your image surges in my mind,

A statue.

 

I turn away.

I’d like to take them home - this sky, the street, the tram.

 

You predicted my destiny,

that I would become a poet.

Since then your name has echoed in my blood.

 

I chose the black and cold volcano.

The crowded city bequeathed my space to others.

A man came who would reclaim

the mountainous wild manuscripts.

 

My bare feet bleeding,

as I tread the twisting snake-like path,

print the earth with exclamation marks.

When the gold-helmeted sun was in the east,

I died by the fountain of myself –

Lavas of blood oozed from it,

My supply of ink.

 

When age is crawling on your forehead

nd years have weathered your hair grey,

you will open your green diary,

immersed in memory like light,

and recollect what happened then.

 

My poetry is sacred water beating in your ears:

A young girl rises from the watery light -

When you regret your beauty is beyond words,

perhaps then you will come to think of me.