The pile of dust on the Irish carpet, I thought
of love to be that dust,
Like a unwanted desire to be wanted,
As if it’s all about surrendering your worth
to a pedlar or
letting a clown paint your face and mock at it
inartistically.
It was a tip- tap game, with millions of buffaloes
on a cliff, stampeding off,
or an exam, as essential as your life but
you are destined to fall, and poorly, even from a
table as high as a five year old – fall.
I hate sun and it lives on my head
I hate rains and they believe I am their partner.
This is what, the whole scheme was written for,
by a wise, wise** shrewd old man,
to break the youthful heart
into the whims of a witch, delicately savouring its
pieces,
feeding on its fleshly life.
