At first I had hoped
To go through the house ignored,
Disguised and let go as a man
In the midst of the houses and their people.
And carry my sorrow as a usual
Till it grew as transparent
And bearable as daylight.
I thought it was sufficient
To weep all night in a long, thick bed
And cry one time to the heart’s centre, But no.
I’m used to crying in the first person and alone.
So I pretend I’m smiling
And live in my body with all my limbs.
How could it be
I did not know that my sorrow
Of love smoothes out the brutal disparity
And that life is not a final but a decline.
Even so it’s a pity
There is no secret language a convenient code
That I can silently write in about the fact nostalgia
And pretend I’m writing regarding the moon
Yes, writing heavy books
About the so-called moonlight.
But in reality about the house I lived in yet left,
With the warmth of so much future regret in my heart.
When I see how clear are the traces
My shadow leaves in my past.
My shadow, people, that is so lonely it
No more maintains, no more recognizes its bearer’s body.
A language, as I said, that I can write with
About the heart and its lethargy.
About love in the empty house of my memory.
About my life, whose future I unclearly remember.
WILFRED JOHN
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/carry-my-sorrow-as-usual/
