Chrysanthemum

I know you never read to the end
the poem I left on your desk —
the one that held all I had in my heart,
the most poem-like thing my feelings could make,
though I wasn't the best poet in the world.

For you, whose shelves were full of poetry books,
whose ears were full of the most beguiling words of love,
my faint little poems never had anything to say.

When you stared at a view
I put on a blue shawl and waited in front of your gaze,
but a moment later the waves on my shoulders settled back in place —
before eyes used to the grandeur of the sea
I wasn't the loveliest pattern the wind's hands could make.

And a girl singing a few steps away
was never a good reason to turn around
for someone who knew the world's most lasting songs by heart.

The truth is, I'm always like a small pot of chrysanthemums
among the tall, many-coloured stems of other flowers,
the one your well-travelled eyes skip over,
and it's hard for you to believe
that the most beautiful masterpiece in the world could be
a girl with a sad simplicity
you find in a corner of every one of your photos,
smiling only for your eyes.