The poet stands, bending over a piece of his writing, next to his wife
musing, not writing any longer.
His wife, in both appearance and mind much stronger than him,
shares his glance and dares
to let her eyes dance right across his naked lines.
He feels her breath next to his shoulder, on his skin,
remembers how, when growing older, you start to be
content with less.
So now, she finally adresses him:
Are you writing about me?
He frowns, something he rarely does, takes a deep breath
and, quietly bereft of his most personal emotion, starts to smile.
You know, he anwers, with a slight shiver in his voice,
I'd rather you asked something else. I'd rather-
but he has no choice, is forced to speak, at last.
His wife, slightly intrigued, demands: elaborate!
Two hands are raised to shape the air, create a space
and place an invisible heart
inside its core.
Look here, he speaks, this is my work,
and indicating this he gestures wildly
while his wife remains disquiet, though now
she sees, thus smiling mildly, what he is getting at.
And in the middle, this is you
as if -
now he does not allow his voice to drift
as if my poetry evolves -
But he stops dead and sees
a clear image inside his spinning head:
He concentrates, takes a step back -
and reaches for his woman's face,
places his palms on her red cheeks, one side each,
and begins to speak anew:
*If I had ever written just a single line about you, dear,
I shall be ******.
I won't let false words touch you!
Let me explain:
It is the other way around!
All pieces and all lines and words have once
belonged to you, and now emerge
from your sweet face!
I am now well prepared just to erase
all of my poetry,
for all of it I will find then again,
anew,
in your kind heart,
in you.
***This is what is left of a two-hour art musem visit this afternoon!
