(You are) burned on the back of my eyelids, gusts of fire whipping waspishly all over the strands of my hair, raking hot coals with my fingers;
No new love allowed in here, nothing allowed but withering, withering, withering…
To die is to live (?) To die is not to vanish but to be in everything;
I see myself in the crying children, so unknowing but still so tired;
in a bleary-eyed mother’s steadfast march;
a stooped old man who no longer has anyone to tell his past glories to.
Feel the inflammation of all your glands; close in on yourself and burn.
When did we lose all this freedom?
When did man cease to stride with the sun on their shoulders, a gleam in their smirk?
A quiet roar, a raging calm,
a crevice in the ocean, a gaping crater in this valve.
Weld the anchor to yourself, relish the burn of your lungs,
absorb the salt water,
rest! Rest! Rest!