The least colourful
Don’t try! My heart’s lock is not to be opened
Your favoured statue can’t be found
Your treasure of kindness is great, is great
There isn’t space for it in my small body
The road that lies ahead is like two parallel lines
Such that my words and your words will never become ours
Don’t describe my colour, don’t deceive me
The burnt butterfly won’t blossom
Don’t give me hope for the spring
A felled tree won’t ever stand again
Even if you can work miracles, don’t try
The least colourful word of my heart’s book
Is badly written, it can’t be read
Leave it to die unread and unknown
This hated word can’t be translated.
2002
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