Tired of Love

Love knows the time that is owed it
hours die like aunts on Sunday.

Is it spring? Is it winter?
The trees receive the wind and are bent.

My desire is tired, my breath toothless.
I'm tired of naming parts of the body,
as we did, bubbling-over with discovery.
I'm tired of love.

Everything begins to drift, driven by the wind:
my hands, her hands, my words,
seasons... we take along the pain,
pursuing the quick love and die.
I'll die for sure, drifting,
looking for love where it once was,
toothless and tired.

- Remco Campert

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