Sometimes I have to wonder, whether is it beating or is it hurting. Between a Thump and Throb, who can tell anyway, right? Shivering under cotton blankets with only a window left unclosed, a rooster crows down below. In this hour between dawn and memories of the new day, the sounds of the night remain in the cricket's continuous chorus.
Daylight approaches, but I still dangle between the darkness of yesterday, unable to cross borders, that bridge which once crossed, one cannot look back.
Oh, I wish, behind me crawl those who weep for me that their weight may ground me down in place. Not a flickering flame, but the hardened wax of a resolute impermanence.
Te-no-hi-ra-ha-na-re-ta-ta-shi-ka-ni-ma-da-ni-gi-ri-shi-me-ta-i
And they say that it is impossible to see in the dark. Within my rejection of its encompassing acknowledgement, I know now, that a distorted reflection can feel pain.
A pond is not a flowing river whose essence is passing time.
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