In which society was this metaphor born? Barely understanding it myself, I'm glad that you wouldn't grasp it just as well. All this talk about the drought, and the fertilizer called dignity in which the dewdrops of heaven are still retained-- what does it take for a ripening apricot to be plucked by delicate hands? Ah, even if it is left hanging under the nine-and-ninety Suns that fight for dominance in the over-crowded sky, won't the birds at least peck at it, out of sheer instinct exacerbated by an unending drought? A dried apricot is a snack beloved by children.
Drink I may, but the taste of water cannot satisfy the insatiable thirst of a soul deprived of life. Like the damned that lust after the lustre of a life untouched by sin, I yearn for the touch of a feather that I feel from within.
In this dry land, how come none would cry out for help? With parched tongues hidden behind honey-glazed lips that are sealed, we bow to each other as if we were just as great as before.
Sometimes I worry that my frustration is the incubator of a stillborn experience. If it continues to flourish, ふたなりになるよ～
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