Mausam,
I am sitting on the porch of a dilapidated wooden cabin,
hidden in the majestic might of Tatra mountains.
I am reading your poems about me.
Today, I would like to reply to your every enactment.
This is an attempt to redeem myself from your assassination.
I hope to rise from the ashes of our "brief but bright" fire.
First, you wrote "Happy Birthday To You."
There, you said you could not wish me happiness.
Ah, I pity your poor soul filled with grudges.
I was upright with you from the day our eyes met.
You thought you could rewrite my history and change my future.
How presumptuous was your ever optimism and iron will!
I wanted you to let me go, but, you decided to embrace melancholy.
In the passage of life, you lived in the magnificent denial of my whim.
I was never secured in your arms; neither was I ready to be loved.
If you must know, I am a mother now and I am happy more than ever!
Then, you wrote "Love Letter"; you painted me as a materialistic whore.
Indeed, this poem speaks loudly about your own insecurity in love.
You were a dreamy romantic, but, you could never build my Tajmahal.
I still drive an old car to work and live in a comfortable heart.
My hard work is rewarded and I am promoted in my job.
What is so wrong about these aspirations of life?
Your obsession with coloring me with the colors you like
doesn't make me a manipulative bitch or angst of your poem.
Finally, my existence was denounced in "Goodbye Love."
I never intended to love; I brought only remnants of me.
You were relentless; there, I perceived hope of a brand new life.
You cannot blame me for lighting your simmering desire.
Smoky mountains and Caribbean blue provoked us shamelessly.
I would never mummify our thrill inside a pyramid of fire.
You decided to carve every detail on the sculpture of love and pain.
I was healing by the blissful ignorance of your passion
til your poetic assassinations opened up these wounds.
Yours sincerely,
Emilcia
Zakopane
Poland
June22, 2013
I am sitting on the porch of a dilapidated wooden cabin,
hidden in the majestic might of Tatra mountains.
I am reading your poems about me.
Today, I would like to reply to your every enactment.
This is an attempt to redeem myself from your assassination.
I hope to rise from the ashes of our "brief but bright" fire.
First, you wrote "Happy Birthday To You."
There, you said you could not wish me happiness.
Ah, I pity your poor soul filled with grudges.
I was upright with you from the day our eyes met.
You thought you could rewrite my history and change my future.
How presumptuous was your ever optimism and iron will!
I wanted you to let me go, but, you decided to embrace melancholy.
In the passage of life, you lived in the magnificent denial of my whim.
I was never secured in your arms; neither was I ready to be loved.
If you must know, I am a mother now and I am happy more than ever!
Then, you wrote "Love Letter"; you painted me as a materialistic whore.
Indeed, this poem speaks loudly about your own insecurity in love.
You were a dreamy romantic, but, you could never build my Tajmahal.
I still drive an old car to work and live in a comfortable heart.
My hard work is rewarded and I am promoted in my job.
What is so wrong about these aspirations of life?
Your obsession with coloring me with the colors you like
doesn't make me a manipulative bitch or angst of your poem.
Finally, my existence was denounced in "Goodbye Love."
I never intended to love; I brought only remnants of me.
You were relentless; there, I perceived hope of a brand new life.
You cannot blame me for lighting your simmering desire.
Smoky mountains and Caribbean blue provoked us shamelessly.
I would never mummify our thrill inside a pyramid of fire.
You decided to carve every detail on the sculpture of love and pain.
I was healing by the blissful ignorance of your passion
til your poetic assassinations opened up these wounds.
Yours sincerely,
Emilcia
Zakopane
Poland
June22, 2013
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