i’ll carve our names on a tree bark
with long-twig runes of elder futhark.
dead language, ancient sweethearts
and no one would know it was us.
unless someone appeared out of the blue,
figuring out what to do
with those markings made blissfully,
decoding how we weren’t meant to be
and antiquity shall lay eyes on me
for our love is not too prominent to see.
i think we are hiding behind metaphors
when there is no reason for,
and neither one of us is good at hyperbole
when our hearts talk, it’s just a folly.
but we can speak with eloquence,
shower ourselves with big words
until to the point, we would not understand,
“why does this language sounded dead to me?”
maybe your shallow feelings can’t be freed
and mine, perhaps, was stuck in that tree.
still, i keep a library of what you would say,
composed of poetic remarks and terms of gold
i would want to collect and decode
every witty expression or sentence,
but it’s tough to comprehend.
all the time, i knew his phrases,
i’m just a dead language translator
going through phases.