I even reached the far end of loneliness,
the dagger of grief towers over my back,
a permanent threat it keeps me walking
without ever stabbing me.
I don’t know why I set out on this way,
there must be a starting point to this state;
after all, I too have been winnowed from a batch,
without ever settling I fluttered after the illusion called woman.
Yet in actual fact it was life’s coquetry that beguiled me.
Still, I can’t say that these deep thoughts served me anyhow.
The mudbricks I made from
the essential mud that I cut by meridians
dry in my marrows, its pain licks my face.
Oh, what farewell, what plague, what sin is this!
I cannot simply walk away anymore,
I cannot but be scattered away
with my dust-gushing mind and memory
May these poems now end, this book, this world-show.
If illusion is the murderer of a man
his corpse will not be washed to any shore.