When you’re gone, I suddenly turn into a sunflower without the sun,
In a book without letters, home without doors, rain without drops,
A double bass with no strings, a tricycle without the front wheel,
A clock without hands, a verse without an ancient metric foot,
Into chocolate without the cocoa, a city with no boulevard,
A giraffe without a neck, an orchestra with no conductor,
A condor without feathers, a street without a footway,
Into a sculpture with neither a head nor a pedestal.
When you’re gone, I’m a nut without the kernel,
A bee without a drop of honey, or a selfish
Little cricket that’s misplaced its violin.
And when I’m with you, I’m merely
A man who conceals so readily
All the things he used to be.