Being soaked in silence for a long time, even pleasantries go weird.
Clenching the fists yet too weak to express, I see it’s a vicious circle, and let it go.
Behind a closed door and a pulled curtain is a back-room of back-rooms;
No one is watching and I am free, torturing and laughing at myself.
If you ever worn shackles, a slight sound of clash would penetrate your ears;
It flutters, like a lightening, breaking into my silence;
Burning to the end can lead to nothing.
Time’s stolen one half, and left another half intact;
The body of the dusk couldn’t carry the heart of the noon, heaving a sigh of grief in vain.
It wouldn’t be better if I started it over again;
Let you take off and let me sink down, “so long, his country”
One who ponders most deeply loves to watch the vigorous soul at a distance.
Following it secretly and holding the feet again and again are a form of self-salvation;
The person who’s coming suddenly vanishes.
Being blown into the room, dead leaves landed at my bedside, neither far nor near.
They’re telling me what they saw and heard, and I’am listening politely,
and singing the praise of the audacity with which the new world moves forward.