If my forgiveness were sapphires,
I would crown you with a crest of color
That I cannot command.
If my forgiveness were a feast,
I would serve you luminous fruits
Of sweet persimmon.
The riches would run deeper than the stars
And dispel the fevered stupor
Of my rage
Because they are not of me.
They are paltry tokens,
They are the glittering frost of regret.
I cannot yet forgive you.
I harbor hidden songs that scatter
The fading body of my pardon.