I was thinking about love
as I walked through the tulip field,
hundreds of blooming gravestones,
as if every color held the bitter fate
reserved for the two of us.
One the soil, one the flower —
one nourishes,
the other uses it to make itself more beautiful.
But the soil, in the end, remains;
the flower surrenders,
while the wind scatters the petals.
And something stirs within me:
perhaps just the fragility
of what remains unspoken.

Love —
a blossomed snare,
a pact never fair.
And now that everything fades,
you call it memory,
I call it wound.