Being Well or Not Being Well

 
I wish no other love, in any other form,
would ever come to me again.
Before my love for you ends,
let not my moment of death arrive.


With a strange enchantment,
loving you, living... I want to remain with you alone.


You know, before I used to think of my work constantly,
and now, you occupy the entire span of my thoughts.


Sometimes I feel like holding my head in both hands
and screaming—why is my world becoming so full of you?


All my desires rush toward you...
then return to me the next moment from some incompleteness!


I desperately want you to come close and kiss this forehead,
and let all my weariness be erased!


Why do you write poetry with such passion poured in?
You don't seem to have that much emotion inside you!


How do you find time to love so much?
Why do you show such indifference to human love in your writing?


That I have so much patience—
I understand this well only after finishing reading your work!


How do you manage to write with such terrible tenderness!
Your writing has a strange pull!
After finishing, I remain in a trance... for a long time!


At day's end, as much as I love your writing,
I don't love you that much, because you're an idiot...


You are felt often, but never told.
Reading your work day after day, I'm somehow shrinking!
You write so harshly about dismissing love,
I get scared sometimes!


Tell me, have I ever
kept you well or kept you badly—
has anything like that happened with you?
If not, then why does this happen within me?
Why has my being well or not being well...
become so centered on you, so centered on your writing?