He took away all his books
just 'cause they reminded him of me.
And I don't know why he did so,
since knowledge has no fault,
since literature is not concerned
with the casualties of love.
I imagine him recriminating Shakespeare
and his squared shape for the miserable
memories of a broken heart.
Isn't Shakespeare himself a broken-hearted,
a crying spirit through Hamlet's pages?
Oh, Shakespeare is faultless
about the penances of love.
Don't blame the naiveness of a book
for spelling, ghosts, ghosts, my name
in fiction and action, in words
of passion. My own leisure, my odd
passion became your exile to memories.
And all characters in them, words printed
in different typographies,
you make them flee to the
miserable condemnation of
dust.
I don't wanna imagine
what would have happened
if his dog had reminded him of me.
Thank God I don't look like one.//
No comments:
Post a Comment