“Dear Sestina”, whispered the Fog and its Flower

Maybe there is no one - who can tell - when can I drop my pen

Image of Long Story Short Award - 2022
Image of Poetry
It is a sweet night, with good sleep,
That I have been a year
Not hopping in the dream, but only in my flower—
My time was stuck in a clock
Where the Fog
Swam in the sea.

It then decided to stay in the middle of the sea,
Ready to fall into a deep sleep.
Before that, the Fog
Had asked its friend, Year,
To rob the Clock
And buried it in a flower.

I know very well that the flower
Is not blossomed to drown in the sea.
But to keep the Clock,
Take away my sleep,
Take away my year,
and stay, by the side of Fog.

How dare you are, Fog?
Diminish my dreams into flour?
Turn my years into a year?
I also curse – curse the Sea
Who had ever hidden the thief of my sleep.
Ding-dong – finally, it's time – to meet my clerk.

"Hi, Ms. Ki", smiles the clerk.
To me, he is the Fog.
He is who had stolen my sleep.
He is who puts a flower
On his curly hair. See,
It is still there, after a year.

"How is your year?"
He asks when it is ticking – the clock,
It turns into a letter C,
Plays music for The Fog
And pours out a ton of reddish—flower—
In its belly, that it robbed from the decades – from my sleep.

Its fragrance reminds me: he did not see me in the year,
He is haunted only in my sleep. With me always, is the clock.
He is the magician named Fog, who makes his spells, simply, with a flower.
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