Should I ask you how did it all begin?
Was it a transitory joy or the love at first sight,
the moment when you felt the soil spoke to you in a forign language.
How did you move then?
Change of modals of life or the brewing cough of skin?
The body traps itself between the layers of mercury and grave,
where the ankle transpires sweat,
a word of brief love.
These are the translations fluttering beneath the hem of your dress,
Listen to these,
do not yell at them.
These are little words heralding onto your laps.
The slice of pain is where it all began,
the time when you touched my chipped thumb,
the insect uttering a buzz,
an unfathomable language.
The time of despair
and a folded shawl of dirt,
it was then I did not hear words,
groping a slight of everything that pounced on me.
It began during the course of tired nights.
a stone eye,
a rock arm,
all disintegrated somewhere in the cold sea.
Such translations cover my mouth in a dark blue shade of the sky.