The Dew of Distance

Tell me, what exactly is the price of tears?
Do they have any value at all?
To feeling, is this worth sky-high?
And—to you?

You once,
gazing toward a heap of refuse,
asked in a tone of contempt—
"Why are you standing there?"

You never understand
that standing beside you—
I feel even more out of place.

You will never again
be able to touch my hand,
because—
we will never meet again.

Do you hear?
Can rain be forced to fall?
Or can one drift away
embracing your chest in a fierce current?

Walking through dew-wet grass—
does this distance between you and me grow any less?

No.
None of these things can be forced.

In this city,
living so close
you and I never meet again, not even once.