Once I called you a dirty – whatever.
Now it does not matter
because your clothes have become 
a bundle of rags.
Then I wanted to see what it felt like.
I paid with my life for that.
It went behind your skull.
My middle-class beauty, testing itself,
discovered the dull dregs of ordinary marriage.
Thick lackluster spread between our legs.
We use the poor lovers to death.

Like an ancient reed,
three notes in the early morning,
in the mountains
where I have never traveled,
the blind bird remembers its sorrow.