As a writer, you will see beauty in everything, drawn to the details.
You will fall in love with things most people overlook,
feeling the intoxicating allure of details.
Within your red blood cells,
fear and loss will merge with dancing beauty.
You'll delight in not understanding things,
cherishing the mystery without seeking to unravel it.
You won't rush to uncover, search, or spoil it;
you'll simply admire it for the beauty of its intricacies.
Details…
Like being small,
leaping from note to note,
sitting atop piano strings much larger than yourself.
Details…
Like lying on a droplet of nectar inside a narcissus flower,
not wanting to ever change your place.
Details like the last drop in a glass of wine,
the pleasure felt by a lone lover at the end of a wedding night—
a wedding of his beloved, who loved another.
Will you not pity me? I beg you—
even false pity;
call it comfort.
"Congratulations, dear maiden," she said,
leaving her lover behind to hide his pain
behind the curtain of a changed tone.
Details of a white dress and a gold ring encrusted with diamonds,
details of photos he gazed at and burned.
But worry not—for now, at least,
he owns ashes, oh people.
The city of our memories has been conquered
by a fleet of foreign recollections,
and the police of forgetting
continue searching for me amidst the rubble of time.
Is this my fault? That I am an Eastern man?
Oh destiny, by the heavens, answer me—
Will your conscience not ache if I die behind their bars,
overflowing with pain?
Will you not pity me? Will you not pity me
if I refuse to eat,
if I refuse to sleep?