Come to me before I die of love – blood
is cooling inside my body and roses are fading
in my hands. From my bed I hear the storms
on the continents; I’ve already felt like leaving, letting the wind
randomly carry my suitcase; I planned to travel the world
to forget you – but I never opened the door.
Come to me while I’m not dead, but come by night –
light only underlines the sorrows of a face and I want you to remember me
as I might have been. From my bed I see the sun
tattooing my country’s coasts; and I dream I’m chasing it,
drawing your name on velvet sands and feeling
life pulsating in the word like a tensed muscle
buried beneath the skin – but then I’d wake up and never do it.
Come to me before I die, but come fast –
books are falling off my lap and mold is spreading
through my clothes. From my bed I scent the leaves
fallen on the paths. Autumn is here. And the room
has suddenly turned cold. And you don’t come. Now
I want to lie on the mossy carpet of the garden and hear
the earth’s heart beating in my breast. Worms feed
on the dreams of the dying. And you won’t come.