Unwritten, endless poems
hurt the most.
Thoughts, barely begun, are associated
with a life that has begun
too hastily.

I am here, close to memories
of future - I do not have the strength
to lift my own shadow,
to deliberately end my sleep.

I am your sleepy doubt, pride -
the stars boast.
Or maybe pity will make hatred
fall silent, shouted over
by the silence?

Would fear make me stronger
than memory?
Solitude deprived of life
is merely a vestibule to the garden,
to the orchard, where apple trees
die in the middle of summer,
forbidden fruit grows.

I stole from you the last morsel
of conscience, a sip of prayer -
painful, infinite.

I will never encounter this irony again,
this light quite unresurrected.