It is me, inside and outside, movement of sensuous self.
Time sails through the mind, a silken thread unbroken in names.
If only the death would erase the fear.
If only the other self meets my roots and stirs up the inner sap.
Reaching the end, you tell me to remember your name
to latch on to memories, to collect all the pieces of conceptual loss and gains.
How we were fooling ourselves?
Nothing is left between us to celebrate the dreams.
All the stray thoughts could not give us insight.
We were dusted off from start to finish in our loneliness.
Once it was a glory to watch carnations in our eyes,
now I am mourning the death of calenders.
