At first I had hoped <br />To go through the house ignored, <br />Disguised and let go as a man <br />In the midst of the houses and their people. <br />And carry my sorrow as a usual <br />Till it grew as transparent <br />And bearable as daylight. <br /> <br />I thought it was sufficient <br />To weep all night in a long, thick bed <br />And cry one time to the heart’s centre, But no. <br />I’m used to crying in the first person and alone. <br />So I pretend I’m smiling <br />And live in my body with all my limbs. <br /> <br />How could it be <br />I did not know that my sorrow <br />Of love smoothes out the brutal disparity <br />And that life is not a final but a decline. <br /> <br />Even so it’s a pity <br />There is no secret language a convenient code <br />That I can silently write in about the fact nostalgia <br />And pretend I’m writing regarding the moon <br />Yes, writing heavy books <br />About the so-called moonlight. <br /> <br />But in reality about the house I lived in yet left, <br />With the warmth of so much future regret in my heart. <br /> <br />When I see how clear are the traces <br />My shadow leaves in my past. <br />My shadow, people, that is so lonely it <br />No more maintains, no more recognizes its bearer’s body. <br /> <br />A language, as I said, that I can write with <br />About the heart and its lethargy. <br />About love in the empty house of my memory. <br />About my life, whose future I unclearly remember.<br /><br />WILFRED JOHN<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/carry-my-sorrow-as-usual/
