“Tu es a minha vida.”
He had learnt how to say it only now it had no audience.
Did he dream her up? He couldn’t tell, unsure was he of his own skin.
A new world was beginning to flower and he’d never speak it. His heart was mute.
He wondered about the poetry of another culture and whether he could love it all the same.
Will I ever understand literature in another land? Through different words, the world is not the same.
“Tu es a minha vida,” he said.
What was this foreign language he no longer understood?
Like broken dreams, alien words splintered his memory. He’d never know.
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