For H. G.

I thought

you had come to stay for good

to weave word-like angels

with your fingertips.

When you left

songs didn’t revive anymore

as far as here

no one

wept with me

for orphaned poetry

no one noticed

how the words, still unborn,

were buried—with you—

in your pockets.

I say

aren’t you fed up

of dying all along?

February 7, 2013

Los Angeles

Translated by Samvel Mkrtchyan