Describe to me the taste of honey,
offered by the hand of your lover,
when the night is just beginning,
and the moon is just listening,
when that night is all there was and all there will be.
Describe to me the feeling of the wind,
as it moves through your lover’s hair,
as it slows and as it moves faster,
as you inhale and exhale,
as the sight of of your lover’s waving hair expresses more life than your dearest breath.
I’ll describe to you my drink, and my moonless night.
200ml of poison, that’s enough to swim in pain, but not drown.
Enough to remember, acknowledge, and forget.
And on another indeterminate night, we shall recall again.
“We will pay the price of those memories as if it has never been paid before” (1).
200ml of poison, as I remember and forget.
Human when my mind reproaches, and human when it forgives.
My utmost expression of life is enough poison to remind me that I feel.
Have I told you the worst of all things?
Doesn’t it make you a little bit sad to know that we will be dead and forgotten?
That our dead bodies offer no home for memories?
Isn’t it more crushing to those with memories of sipping honey from sweeter hands?
The grounds that we walked on will welcome others. We will lie beneath them, passed and irrelevant. The memories will live neither above the ground nor below it.
Give me a sip of honey, so that I might live miserably by choice.
The tally is many bitter moonless nights,
and it cannot be repaid, not in one life nor in many.
Even the flood can’t save a yellow plant, and even the honey can’t soften a bitter heart.
The lesser pain is in knowing what wasn’t, the greater is in knowing what won’t be.
But the consolation, the weakest consolation, is that the happy and the miserable are equal after death.
(1) Source: The idea of repaying the price of memories as if they haven’t been paid before is something Shakespeare mentioned in “The sonnets and a lover’s complaint”