tonight I am the saddest poem,
under the large sky, empty of yellow starlights,
only the moon in her crescent lumos,
listening to me drawl and pour out my colourless story.
tonight, the night is loud as it is every night in the heart of the city.
and the city will now have to mask how I,
like Neruda long for the unification with my other half
but unlike Neruda who has felt this love,
I can only yearn for one as gay and comforting as he had.
The same roof edge I dangle my legs over, under the same sky
And the same world of mine that remains not tainted by them, by you.
In the distance I hear a wolf howling with a sound so broken for its Moon,
and I can hear Pablo Neruda’s anguished scribbles when he wrote the saddest poem,
but I am the saddest poem.
Every line tearfully written,
every letter you have painted in cursive,
tossed into the fireplace
never delivered to the metal postbox,
it is I.
this may be the last time I am the saddest poem,
and this will be the last time I live through your pain.
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[original:
“I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.”]
Mono 