- There is as much poetry in your eyes
I want to read as you do in mine
And slowly I see my life in the form of a moon
That rises from the twilight of your eyes
And when each night comes
You would change into a paper rabbit
And hum me to sleep
In my dream the city is half Siem Reap
And half Phnom Penh and sometimes nowhere
My soul walks along with the ghosts
And my body is enchanted with the deathsongs
I want to hold your hands onto my painted face
And then bury them deeply into my breasts
Where my memory is kept
But I know that this is the time
When your poetry is made of despair
And grief leads you into the emptiness of the street
And your vision is all under the moon with her sullen stare
For I feel you only half inside me
And the other half is indulged in death
Yet, your mind is ever alert for the outside
So night after night, you searched for your buried ancestry
And listened carefully to the noodle vendor
Trudging along our street with his battered cart
Alone with darkness, he would offer the usual simple song!
My passion for you grew and soon crumbled
Before I was left aside to hear
The soft beating of your heart echoing his calloused feet
Such a night is like my worship for you, tortured
And twisted like a wounded bird, unable to lift her wings
And I realized that your love is the past
As the old man piped the noodle song loud and clear
The distance drew him slowly out of sight
And, in the stillness, I looked at you
And feared his gray tune of the lonely night
Whatever you have created for me has a reason to depart
And I begin to understand
That the moon of the East can not be borrowed to the West
And equally, the moon of the West is not the best
Like a story that has no beginning or end
You are not my forgiveness
And I am not your apology
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