The thirst of newness
makes you move away from the crowd of
grievers. I ask the moon, why does he cry?

What was the ritual, when
you seek redemption from
the bonfires of forgotten love?

In fact, sorrow was
a beautiful heritage of truth processors.
You make a temple, and god breaks it.

The wind is blowing, the weather is nice, but the future seems bleak.

The sun feels good on the skin, yet things don't seem good in life.

There is greenery all around, which is calming to the sight, but life is not looking well.

Everything seems to be there in life, save for the assurance that it will continue.

These are not my
words. The knowledge sinks in mind.
What is now the result of meaning?

Everything cracks, counting
the dark lips of undying betrayals.
You walk before the burning moon.

There was no preface. No
End. The middle book was a discovery
of the author called by many names.

Pulling the sun down,
a state of love comes, but pain
was not mine, You were my mirror.

How long the lamps
will go to search the mind to
reach the death of an unknown name?

The timid fame was the
last blunder. Each god sheds the crown
of pure reality. It was an eternal call.