Before the honey, before
the salty crystal,
I knew your bitterness,
a fresh shovel of dirt,
a bitterness rich with grief,
a black flavor far back in the throat.
one part soil, two parts root, and all the filaments of rain.
. . . .
Always a rose ready
to spill its petals, so that I must pluck
each of them, or crush
the whole thing in my fist.
Or I must cup it
in my hands, adore it,
in silence
or, more often
in words
. . . .
摘自李立揚的“永遠的玫瑰”
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