'Jy het die liefde-van-jou-lewe verloor,'
sê jy asof ek dit nie weet nie—
my hartklop is
uit gelid;
my toekomsdrome is ou verbruinde kiekies
tot as verbrand; my hoop wat eens
na lemoenbloeisels geruik het, het gegis
en asyn geword; my holtes wat op 'n tyd
reservoirs vir liefde was, is nou stowwerige
pakkamers van ru verlange en kru verlies.
Wat jy nie begryp nie:
lankal reeds het jy my verloor
—'n lyn van 'n gedig of melodie
as mens aan die slaapraak en dan verdamp,
soos 'n skaduwee wat skrik vir 'n bedlamp,
soos kiekies in 'n vuur, soos hoop wat te lank
in holtes en hole vergete laat lê is;
soos 'n ridder wat 'n soen belowe is,
maar ongekus is—jy het ons reeds
daardie eerste keer belemmer,
toe jy my hart verruil het,
en op 'n ander hart
se klop gewed het.
Nee, ek wil nie met jou trou nie.
Jy is nie meer my trouvrou nie.
Blundered
'You have lost the love-of-your-life,'
you say, as if I don't know it—
my heartbeat is
out of step;
my future dreams are old browned photos
burned to ash; my hopes that once
smelled of orange blossoms had fermented
and turned vinegar; my hollows that were once
reservoirs for love have become dusty
storerooms of raw longings and rude losses.
What you do not comprehend:
you have lost me already long ago—
a line of a poem or melody
when one falls asleep and then evaporates,
like a shadow frightened of a bedside lamp,
like photos in a fire, like hope left lying
forgotten in hollows and trash heaps;
like a knight that was promised a kiss,
but with lips untouched—you blundered us
already that first time,
when you exchanged my heart,
and bet on the heartbeat
of another.
No, I do not want to marry you.
You are no longer the one for me.
... Sanko Lewis
