When I see you,
I am a shy little boy hiding behind his mother’s apron,
and I wish you would touch me.
I could, like a cat, approach you and try to flatter you,
but I do not have any soft fur or delicate purr
to gain your attention
so stand afar like a hungry dog
staring at the piece of bread which lies a little beyond the line –
into an unfamiliar territory.
When I see you walking across the isle,
I am a flower in a blooming garden waiting for a bee
to come and taste my nectar.
But you on a quest to decorate our room
where visitors come to see every evening soaked in perfume,
dressed in the finest clothes,
snap through me which your cold iron scissor,
take me and keep me in a glass vase where I die –
a slow and familiar death.
When I see you talking to someone,
I am a rusted, old piano waiting for your tender fingers
to press my keys and let me express in a harmonious melody.
But you have the finest opera artists eager to play for you,
so I remain locked in an unfrequented corner
where spiders weave their webs around me –
tangle me –
with great patience.
When I see you living,
I am a dying soldier in a battlefield,
reaching out for a flask of water.
But you it away from my sight to water the plants in your garden
that never bloom even at the arrival of spring.