P3

The Night when You Sliced Me

This cold wind will never change my spoilt soul
into the strength of ore.
This cold wind will never put the wound
out of the flame in this baby’s heart of mine.
This cold wind, instead, marks a death of a pride
I am no longer strong?

It’s those words of yours
that sliced me:
“a spoilt self-centered selfish infant trying to dance like a man.”

And now I crawl in this cold cruel night
these used-to-be strong feet are to weak for my empty heart
the scratches all over my vein burn my soul over and over,
but I’ll keep all the agony in this locked bleeding heart:
you’ve sliced me enough tonight, my dearest.


Salemba, April 18, 2006