If you come back
and decide to decode me
again
We, forever, will be lost
in translation
Our language is dead, my love
and I have stopped sitting on its grave
Our scholars have given up
The story we told is forgotten
Unlike the letters
that spelled our love
or the forest of poems
we planted
Our story cannot be
rewritten
Our love cannot grow
in a garden of ash
Relic, I am
of our history
And when I disappear
when finally
finally, I crumble
into dust
you can scatter
the powder of me
and find
there is no knowing
which part is our story
and which part is me.
