Twenty-eight years and one half old
And one without a mother –
She severed our connection,
Now her being haunts another.

She was wont to warm her hands
Over hollow blue-grey coals
Of her own dying fire…

Stop! I can not go on in this vein!
This urge to write
Is driven only by a galling lack of passion.
I will not force myself
To maintain decent verse
For the sake of nothing.
Indifference is not something
You can rehearse.

Any poetic effect
Is born from the depth
Of monotonous unfeeling
Chiselling a wondrous symmetry
By means of a recess in my memory
Where the chipped out objects of the past
Animate a fictitious future
I no longer encounter.