My city, my other love, I will not write
about you tonight. I will not write of heaps
of dead bodies, of numberless graves, of snow and
rain together, the cold art of forgiveness,
the dying of the dying.
My city, my dark disease, I will not write
about you tonight. I will not write of nights
of vigil, the cold stare of longing, the dismal
evenings, frosty blood soaked afternoons, the fallacious
art of hope, the dust of pain.
My city, my tormentor, I want to forget you,
leave behind, alongside my books, the double ache
of love requited and unrequited, the mendacious
sellers of dreams, the false dawn, the vague art
of vermilion skies, fake art.
My city, my hundred thousand nights, the endless
litter of burnt candles mixed with the bones
of my ancestors, the canopy of those endless roofs,
that sage afternoon, that hopeless morning.