This silent lamp collides with another kind of black to produce black.
Wet. The fresh wind winds through.
It should be bright, with the temptation of grass.
There should be wandering in a daze, holding hands with the years.
Walking through the squares and hills, those shadows are sprouting.
Grow into a hawthorn tree, on the plain in the north.
They wrote my name in the snow and in the desolate white.
With the sound of salt, the wind winds through.
I ran across it in the square and on the mountain.
We met in the dark memory of shame.
We keep old and elegant on paper.
Full of shame, we
Heaven and hell on paper
Our shame comes from silence for too long and too deep.
We forgive the fragile soul in pain.
We weave nets on paper and hang fish and wooden beams.
Hard justice is like a fishbone, stuck in the throat.
Trees that we can't name are like mercury.
Stagnant and towering darkness is like a sharp sword.