Kanth

A flock of meadowlarks escaped the winter breath,

leaving for the western stars and woven nests.

Carried by a gust, led by a song;

the billowing tune sits with a man cold enough to let it linger.

He watched as the birds chased newer beginnings,

wondering if his would do the same.

Although he knew the price he would be paying,

winter was never the one to blame.

For his flock was known to be careless,

chasing the thrill, thrumming his pain.

His forlorn disposition had left him hindered;

he longed for the sun, but all he ever got was rain.

Une ardoise s’efface, me privant de sens.

Sache que sans toi le sang s’écoule sans aucune relance.

Je me débrouille enfin pour retrouver un feu,

Un feu timide qui me réchauffe la pensée.

Les lettres sans destinataire ne servent qu’à être jetées.

I grab onto a ceiling higher than us.
I read through lines finer than dust.
A mesh of admiration,
speared amid being crushed.

It’s a far cry.

You stay to grow,

I leave to hide.

We’re a far cry,

you and me,

yet somehow we remain intertwined.

’Cause I’ve cried your name so many times,

the sunflowers now bend to your sound.

If only you could see

the version you dream to be,

in my eyes, all complete.

It’s close, I know,

but we’re a far cry,

and I know that’s what keeps us bound.

I have been weeping an un-annexed love

ever since you bespoke love into my bones.

People dreaded the lightning and the distant sound of horns,

yet I have been dreading the thread I have been threading,

not knowing when to stop,

not knowing how to cope.

You have engraved in stone a letter

not foreign to my alphabet,

yet somehow you managed to carve it

in a way I have never seen before.

I will wait for you

as I waited for winter,

with a fear of summer being on your mind.

For my leaves have already fallen for you to step on,

even if I never gave a warning sign.