She has read every novel
that speaks about couples or about mothers and daughters.
Love stories, therefore.
She hasn’t a whisker of belief in any god,
she doesn’t believe in anything but people.
When I come along with my cynical views,
she listens to me and grows sad. I have realised
how much I still desire her, but she
regards my love as being far from passion,
perhaps through so much death, through having had
a full but difficult life: tremendously full
at times. I haven’t understood her well enough
and don’t know enough of what she has understood about me.
But there is a refuge for both of us.
And I enjoy a privilege: I carry
her poem written in my glance.
I wouldn’t know how to write a poem at all like her.