I hope to see you where I don't want to see you,
at the end of my writings, paradox.
In poets who play at composing you,
your constant presence harasses me and throws me.
I don't want to be the one who gathers your tears,
scattered with the waterwheel of the past.
I thus avoid rekindling old flames
that one day my longings consumed by your side.
And yet, your memory persists,
haunting every verse, every line.
Like a ghost that insists in my dreams,
torturing my soul with your Dantesque vision.
Why this disquieting longing that you saw me,
to see you where I don't want you to be, mocking guest?
