Sparkatale

Each year, now three and counting, each tenth of June,

crisp letters each time with something new to tell

who else the gifter, than he for whom I swoon,

with me under his spell well past farewell.

Bouquet of tulips in darkness set ever alight,

bright red, warm yellow, soft white as ghostly as ever,

set at my window of gaping empty night,

to fill the void now less a hopeless endeavor.

Sometimes I wondered, feared, and asked it whether

this heart-skewer arrow did more harm than good,

and yet my love it framed and held together

no longer living in the flesh, inside my heart he could.

Amour mien, vie mienne, toujours je te souviens,

La vie d’avant, encore dans l’amour mien.

Trans.:

Love of mine, life of mine, I remember you always (remember you still)

The life of before is still yet in my love.