You cut off a rose
You cut off a rose while I was asleep
and placed in the glass on my bedside table
on top of a farewell letter.
I threw the rose down into a rowing boat
and let it drift with the current
until it disappeared beneath the weeping willows
at a point where the river turned.
The boat took the rose.
The current took the boat.
The river took the bridge
where the women strolled in the evening
when the sun coloured the river red.
The bridge took you.
The boat was a dirty green
old, full of water, half-rotten
and bore the name ‘Amalie II’.
And so it is that I now live
alone, in a pink room, in a blue landscape
and long just as much
for that which is beyond the misty mountains
and that which hides itself from itself
between the words of your letter.
To remain is to know.
To travel is pain.
I do not want the former.
I am no longer equal to the latter.