Silent Melody

You owe me nothing, no one has any obligation to return to the walls of such unattainment.

With your signature, I cultivate worn-out feelings, and in my letters, you dwell so clearly. These letters written in blue ink are precious to me—to create them, I had to bear the unnamed terror that is departure.

These letters become mere white birds—when I dedicate them to your name.

Even when the flute's melody is lost in the wind, I bind you to me again and again in this devastation. When I am worn away, will you touch these letters written in blue ink and bring them to completion, my nest? Give me your word?

Will you ever search for my memory? This creation that exists only within you—will such a statement of ending find acceptance?

If I fall terribly ill, if I cannot sustain myself in the ceaseless current of touching you, then don't think you'll find me in that moment—where self-interest never meets the unseen.

Even the colors that paint the world are forbidden to me! I see—touching sorrow, in the midst of love, touching you. The day those feelings fell as blood in my eyes, they were visible only to you in private—yet remarkably, you didn't mock me even once. That moment was enough to leave a fragment of my anguish as testimony in your breast pocket.

You understand the music of silence, my nest. You know how to surrender yourself in love's reception, you know how to become devoted to sorrow's melody. Coming close to your heart in this approaching moment, I noticed the breathless space inside your chest! You are like a Phoenix bird, cruelly burned.