: The more I write your delirium, the more only I remain within it. In that poem I wrote about you, did you first fall in love with me too? Your abandoned emotions burn in endless fire. My eyes grow moist in the fog of your cool voice, in piercing joy I see your reflection. A thousand pages of the burnt diary still echo with your whispers.
I gaze into death's embrace. I see everything laughing in pale light, yet I return again, weaving your memory in secret. My conscience burns with the sharp scent of your memory's corpse. In the shadow of your body lingers my sleepless night of resentment, yet why do you flee so far from me?
: I am here with you. What if I say I live in the fierce touch of your feelings?
: Will you keep me in one corner of your mind? Let me lie there like a last letter gathering dust in a mailbox. I want to write an ocean of words, touching you like a myth.
I never told you, but once I yearned so deeply for the waves of the river in your heart's depths to crash against me as you looked into my eyes. Tearing apart my dictionary of feelings, I want to write life's finest verses about you.
: Why are you crying? Your stillness terrifies me.
: You're asking me to step away from hope! Without your touch I can't write anything, it's impossible!
: What's happened to you?
: If suddenly this moment's pale flame burning in search of you—with passion racing through the empty crematorium of a deserted street—seeks you out, you wouldn't care for the salt water of my bloodied emotions on love's return path, would you?
: I did, every moment, but you avoided me! Talk to yourself and see—you'll discover that in the secrecy of my peace, the accumulated stone of your sighs was imprisoned for just one moment. I searched for you at the borders of this silent path, yes, but I couldn't ask for your love.
: I am not that traveler, love's joy is not meant for me.