Empty Pouch

No call comes anymore from anyone,
on the plains of heart-emptiness, leaves rustle like tombstones;
all my stored love,
night after night some termites come and devour it away!

I say, rise up, my love!
How long will you sleep like this?
When will this inexorable fate break?
Those who took away this heart's light,
cut the heart so slowly on the saw's edge,
a sickening stench has come to shroud all four directions,
as if today the empty heart lies bound—
tell me, with what will you grasp it?

O you flowing one,
then wake now,
the day has passed, only you didn't know.
Everyone gathered in their harvest from the fields,
brought home so many, so many lives,
they understood only the clever ways of living,
only you could not be made to understand!

This courtyard here, whose is it then?
Where you lie with a mat spread, wrapped in some whispering breeze,
there in whose place are you?
Have you ever known?
The day flows away,
somewhere at the bend of the moving path that heart has fallen,
yet the rest of the journey ended in a moment's weariness of the eyes,
you came and stood pushing through the crowd, and oh...
this is that same empty satchel—which I call my heart!