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Swell (Translated)
Fetching thing she's made of bubbles
that never pop nor dare to venture
high enough to catch a current,
lest they scatter, lest they leave.
Silly thing she's always falling
down declines all slick with ether,
finding stones to stall her passage,
diggings heels and spraying mud.
Lovely thing her gaze is catching
and it shan't let loose my chest.
Why would I take counted measure?
Her love was rumored stories, fables.
Yet here I've come, drowned in flesh,
drunk on all the wordless leisure;
through all transparence there exists
the swirling phrases that seeks their roots.
With our lips we'll lend them power
'til they've birthed with spirit whole,
and watch them leaning toward each other,
forming verses I'd wished I'd told.
But sweetest thing, she hears them now
by proxy of our shared ordained,
and in her pocket she shall carry
a note a-fixed on dry letter.
And on this note with crease-ed corners,
blotted ink with script in swirls,
is everything he's ever wanted
and everything that she's brought him.
