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You are aloft, evil, elegant and gloomy
Like a snow leopard, like a crescent moon
My witch, my Mona Lisa
In your melancholy and mysterious eyes
I'm willing to be gracefully cut by your knife
I'm willing to turn into a pile of ash
Pillowing the green hills and rivers alone
Listening to your wordless repent
Plum, I'll stand in the hell or heaven
To see how you draw back the cutting edge of your red lips
No, in the centre of the storm of time
I, a free poet
In the instant of falling, will die without a burial place
If I refuse to rise
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