What shall I write from the empty, desolate heart,
when every word is being scraped?
You want to clean the mess of a lifetime,
yet labour brings loneliness
and you inherit the depth of a problem.
A thought which has no ending.
A constant battle with yourself
in the bleak winter of age.
One by one they have died,
Your invisible gods.
The vast landscape of knowing the truth
still remains unconquered.
Pursue you must
for the sake of moment
a flame which has no heat!