Beckoning Dead Leaves claimed my rebirth, through which I was saved, but in vain. Melody of nihilism, dragging me along its pitfalls, a cry without a nametag, a sorrow beyond all reveries. I saw black birds flitting around turbid river where spontaneous combustion of dark clouds were prophesied: “Thus, read my lips.” How imperishable is this violence? How impalpable, and undue: We could only have loved like snowflakes, by the setting of the sun, till yet another thousand winter. Nothing rises us above what we are. Full of melancholy and ocean, our rueful journey into an alien shore, 2005-2-8 |