It hurts, the abstract isolation of life emptying of self.
The infection of water in the sun.
A nameless pain annihilates the ascending desires.
I want no more traffic of dreams.
Only discovery of Being.
Where the city had gone from the mirror of my poems?
Streets had the color of a wrinkled maid.
And new dictionary had new words of an obscene vernacular.
I wanted my stack, my lake.
Surface exploded into nothingness.
The lake boiled in the heat of eternity.
A part of the evening was cool,
participating in the festivities of homing birds.
It took a whole night to see the face of truth!
