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Hygge

Can I live with the denial of your love?
Patches from codices of parchment, a rich repository of my love.
Today, thy hands committed libricide
and I wonder why these thoughts won’t just go away
— my taboo love or this taboo act?

Charcoal briquettes kindle to a blaze,
igniting my eyes, red-rimmed like the open-hearth furnace,
ebbing away pages of my lyrical poetry to the last cinder.
Effluvia of eosin dye wafts through the air in bright spring sunlight,
ageing swiftly like the vanished years – the color of our love.

This is a poem that love scarcely reads.
Might I now feign pretence about my true feelings for you?
By no means, my heart tarries without guidance.

Are these torments the wages of love?
These days, I watch birds taking flight from the sea
near the old hill harbouring the suburban sprawl
of Pisciotta at its foot in the province of Salerno.
It’s terrifyingly real that we’ve moved on –
how amazing is that!

Now, my heart drifts away, lazily like a siene boat
seeking to catch the last rays of the sun.
Maybe this foolishness of mine is called true love.

Where did I go wrong?
Am I cursed to love you ‘til my last breath?
Your eyes sparkle with a trace of contrition.
Do not ask me what I think of you –
I shan’t tell you ‘til one afternoon in our next reincarnation.
Truly, these yearnings of the heart will be my ruin.

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