To Begonia

After all these years of mania,
I decided to finish the unfinished poem
For you, my lovely begonia
In order to requite the unrequited love.

As if a quiescent volcano
Decided again to burst into crimson bloom,
I tried to grow a poetic rose
With ashes of memories and fiery lava.

But suddenly I found, the passion,
The abrupt earthquake of my heart, cheated myself.
I could write no poem, nor spit any fire
From the extinct volcano, my impotent pen.

Did you know, cunning begonia?
My brain had not been the womb of inspiration,
Or the weird cradle for Athena,
But a gloomy godown of documentation.

And I could compose no note for you,
Except boring footnotes of your daily trifles.
I had become a gaunt scholiast,
An automatic shadow of masterpieces.

It’s the first time, I consciously knew
I hadn’t been and would never be your lover.
You were only my fetish idol,
Or worse, a complex, a hovering imago.

The pilgrimage to the poetry,
All the fatigue and pain of creativity,
Was eventually in vain, and halfway I died.
My corpse was wrapped up by my linen scroll of poem.

Sophisticated begonia!
My pen is finally escaped from your curse.

Death was such a joyful aphasia.
My Poem sprouted again, from Eternal Silence.